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performantc  of  "'Ctc  <©ool)-jl^atureli  M^n") 

Photogravure  from  the  original' painting  by  Eyre  Crowe 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH'S  brilliant  comedy,  "The  Good-Natured 
Man,"  was  first  acted  in  1768,  Samuel  Johnson  writing  for  it 
the   prologue   beginning, 

"Pressed  with  the  load  of  life  the  weary  mind 
Surveys  tht  general  toil  of  human-kind." 
The  picture  represents  an  imaginary,  though  highly  probable,  inci- 
dent, according  to  which  the  great  lexicographer  and  his  biographer 
are  entertaining  Goldsmith  after  the  successful  performance  of  the 
drama.  Artistically  the  picture  is  valuable  as  a  study  both  in  por- 
traiture (contrasts  of  physiognomy)  and  in  decorative  setting. 
The  deep-toned  woodwork  and  wall  clock  form  a  rich  background  to 
the  powderer"  wigs  of  the  guests,  the  geld  lace  of  Goldsmith's  coat, 
the  flowered  gown  of  the  buxom  waitress,  the  table  ware  on  board 
and  tray,  and  the  burnished  metal  of  the  grate,  of  the  sconces  on 
the  mantel,  and    of  the  sword  bung  on  the  partition. 


ESSAYS 


OF 


BRITISH     ESSAYISTS 


INCLUDING     BIOGRAPHICAL    AND    CRITICAL    SKETCHES 


WITH  A  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION  BY 


CHAUNCEY  C.  STARKWEATHER,  A.B.,  LL.B 


REVISED    EDITION 


VOLUME  I 


NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 
THE    CO-OPERATIVE    PUBLICATION    SOCIETY 


Copyright,  igoo 
By  the  COLOIvIAL  PRESS 


^9^ 


SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION 

*"  I  "HE  essay  will  always  be  a  popular  form  of  literature. 
I       Not  so  profound  as  the  philosophical  treatise,  it  inter- 
j,  ests,  entertains,  and  amuses  the  reader.    Not  dull  with 

I      inconsequential  details  as  history,  it  is  cheery  with  pleasant 
_     banter  and  raillery.    Not  rising  to  the  grandeur  of  epic  sublim- 
f^     ity,  not  soaring  in  the  pure  ether  of  poetic  rapture,  it  has  a 
/     kindly  nod  and  smile  and  handshake  for  the  every-day  mortal 
•N    of  all  the  walks  of  life.     It  neither  preaches  nor  commands; 
it  suggests.    And  suggestion  is  often  more  effective  than  ful- 
mination  or  homily.     By  its  winsome  manner  a  suggestion 
deprecates    opposition,    and    friendly   advice   succeeds   where 
decretals  fail.    So  the  power  for  good  of  the  essayist  is  enor- 
mous.    Without  the  animosity   of  partisan   pamphleteering, 
without  the  formal  authority  of  the  pulpit,  the  essay  may  teach 
a  thousand  lessons  of  goodness  and  virtue. 

We  may  find  in  the  essay  philosophy,  but  it  is  in  gay  attire ; 
we  may  discover  erudition,  but  it  is  presented  with  drawing- 
-room graces  and  a  cheery  urbanity.    There  may  be  pronuncia- 
„ientos,  but  they  come  from  the  library  as  a  throne.     The  essay 
ti  is  the  hyphen  between  erudition  and  the  people.     A  sentence 
P^    may  be  the  crystallization  of  fifty  books,  which,  perhaps  pon- 
^-  derous  and  profound  and  technical,  would  never  have  come  to 
N    the  common  household.       A  sparkling  epigram  may  be  the 
^    epitome  of  a  life  comedy.     In  touch  with  men  and  books,  the 
essayist  gives  one  an  "  epic  in  a  paragraph."     The  essay  is  not 
a  treatise.    There  is  in  it  not  so  much  demonstration  as  scin- 
'V-tillation.     It  is  not  Euclid,  it  is  a  flashlight.     It  is  not  proof, 
it  is  representation.     It  is  not  persuasion,  it  is  vision.    An 
edict,  a  general  order,  a  code,  is  not  an  essay. 

The  essay  is  a  confession ;  we  might  almost  say  a  chat.  The 
keynote  to  the  essay  is  its  personality.  The  lack  of  this  person- 
ality and  individuality  takes  Cicero  out  of  the  ranks  of  perfect 

"*  1— Vol.  57 


^! 


Iv  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION 

essayists.  He  is  too  general,  too  remote,  too  stately,  too 
formal.  In  the  essay  we  should  see  the  open  fireplace,  or  the 
cool  veranda.  It  is  philosophy  in  its  house-coat.  The  flames 
and  smoke  are  not  from  an  altar  or  a  Delphic  tripod,  they  are 
from  the  hearthstone. 

In  reading  an  essay  you  somehow  feel  as  if  you  were  the  au- 
thor's special  audience,  and  were  personally  being  "  made 
something  of,"  in  that  the  writer  is  addressing  you  individually. 
This  is  because  the  essay  is  personal,  conversational,  direct, 
pithy,  impulsive,  and  unpretending.  It  resembles  a  letter. 
Does  it  not  seem  as  if  the  writer  had  in  mind  some  particular 
friend  or  "  intimate  enemy  "  to  whom  his  pages  are  addressed, 
although  dedicated  to  the  public?  To  this  definite  or  imaginary 
person  the  author  speaks  of  fashion,  manners,  character,  books, 
or  politics,  avoiding  mere  scholasticism,  or  pedantry,  or  the 
vitriolic  force  of  the  philippic. 

An  essential  quality  of  the  essay  is  style.  Whatever  license 
of  dulness  or  unevenness  may  be  permitted  to  the  writer  of  a 
long  epic  or  history,  the  essayist  must  be  alert,  clear,  concise, 
and  polished.  Obscureness  is  fatal,  tediousness  is  suicidal. 
The  manners  of  the  camp,  the  acrimony  of  the  forum,  the 
technicality  of  the  treatise,  the  ponderousness  of  the  pulpit,  are 
alike  out  of  place.  It  is  the  courtly  and  debonair,  the  rapier 
thrust  and  not  the  bludgeon,  the  mobility  and  dash  of  the  light 
cavalry  and  not  the  weight  of  the  leviathan  artillery,  that  one 
demands  in  the  essay.  In  so  far  as  one  departs  from  these 
characteristics  one  leaves  its  true  field. 

Of  course  everyone  knows  that  all  the  essayists  hark  back  to 
Montaigne.  It  is  a  long  cry,  and  yet  they  have  not  improved 
upon  him,  nor  are  they  likely  so  to  do.  Like  Walt  Whitman 
Montaigne  "  celebrates  himself,"  but  so  charmingly  that  interest 
in  his  works  has  never  waned.  The  field  of  the  English  essay 
is  very  rich.  Not  to  know  the  essayists  is  to  have  absolutely  no 
adequate  knowledge  of  English  literature.  They  are  of  its  very 
warp  and  woof.  From  Bacon  down  to  the  present  day  their 
names  are  among  the  brightest  in  the  galaxy  of  English 
writers.  If  it  be  said  that  Bacon  was  too  stately  and  severe,  it 
may  be  remarked  that  this  stateliness  was  part  of  his  character, 
and  that  in  his  essays  he  unbent  as  much  as  he  could,  and  his  at- 
titude is  strictly  individual. 


SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION  v 

How  quaint  is  his  dedication  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham! 
In  this  he  says :  "  I  do  now  publish  my  essays,  which  of  all  my 
works  have  been  the  most  current;  for  that  as  it  is  seen  they 
come  the  most  home  to  men's  business  and  bosoms," 

The  philosopher,  lawyer,  and  statesman  could  not  be  trivial, 
meditating  upon  the  greatest  affairs  and  highest  fortunes  of 
men. 

Times  changed  and  the  essay  changed  with  them,  the  essayist 
becoming  the  satirist  of  society,  as  in  the  sparkling  brilliancy 
and  grand  manners  of  Steele  and  Addison.  Here  we  see  the 
fashionable  world  of  beaux  and  belles,  of "  lace  ruffles,  and  card- 
tables  and  sedan-chairs,  and  coffee-houses."  Here  the  writer 
deals  with  social  foibles,  foppish  airs,  and  gentlemanly  badinage, 
essentially  the  spirit  and  gossip  of  the  town. 

The  field  broadened  for  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and  Hunt ;  they  had 
a  larger  audience,  made  up  of  both  town  and  country,  and  a 
thousand  added  topics.  Lamb  laughed  to  keep  from  weeping, 
a  sweet  and  gentle  soul,  his  sister's  guardian  angel  and  a  life- 
long martyr  to  a  sacred  duty.  The  shadow  of  a  great  grief  hung 
over  all  his  days  like  the  relentless  destiny  of  a  Greek  tragedy. 
Leigh  Hunt  was  jaunty  and  poetic,  full  of  pretty  fancies.  With 
quieter  days  came  Lord  Macaulay  and  Carlyle.  The  latter 
stands  perhaps  at  the  head  of  the  critical  and  biographical  essay- 
ists, while  Lord  Macaulay  is  first  among  the  writers  of  the 
historical  essay.  He  excelled  in  the  pictorial  and  descriptive, 
with  an  inexhaustible  vocabulary  and  a  flowing  style. 

In  the  essay  we  seem  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  inner  man.  We 
seem  to  see  gruff,  scholarly  Johnson,  with  Boswell  dogging  his 
steps,  and  faithfully  worshipping  at  his  shrine.  What  an  audi- 
ence Johnson  always  had  when  the  great  biographer  was  pres- 
ent? One  can  almost  fancy  he  can  see  Boswell  as  he  listens  and 
admires.  And  witty,  Bohemian  Goldsmith,  wandering  up  and 
down  in  careless  fashion,  piping  for  his  supper.  His  element 
was  ink,  for  when  he  talked  he  babbled.  Yet  he  holds  the 
stage  to-day.  And  shrinking  Cowper,  playing  with  his  hares, 
morbid  and  timorous,  fearful  of  the  great  rough  outside  world  at 
large.  Modern  therapeutic  methods  would  perhaps  have  kept 
him  mentally  vigorous  and  added  years  to  his  blameless  life. 
We  can  see  Burke  in  his  study,  rounding  stately  periods,  polish- 
ing and  elaborating,  careful  of  his  style.     We  walk  with  Cole- 


vi  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION 

ridge,  mystical  and  dreaming,  planning  and  neglecting,  with  the 
taint  of  the  Orient-drug  poisoning  his  life,  and  we  leave  him 
with  a  sense  that  he  might  have  done  so  much  more.  We  hear 
Landor  talking  of  the  ancient  worthies  who  have  come  back  to 
life  again  in  his  pages.  We  can  imagine  him  saying:  "  Now, 
don't  you  suppose  Shakespeare  would  have  said  that?  "  And  so 
down  through  the  years  we  go,  noting  the  ethereal  delicacy  and 
altruistic,  visionary  yearnings  of  Shelley,  the  buoyant  wit  of 
Jerrold  and  the  kindly  satire  of  Thackeray,  the  breeziness  of 
Dickens,  and  the  art-morality  of  Ruskin,  the  splendor  of  Spen- 
cer's philosophy  and  the  culture-alembic  of  Matthew  Arnold. 
If  we  read  the  essay  we  see  the  man,  "  in  his  habit  as  he  lived." 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Francis  Bacon i 

Of  Seeming  Wise 3 

■     Of  Studies 5 

Of  Truth 7 

Of  Revenge 11 

Of  Envy  13 

Of  Love 19 

Of  Friendship 21 

Of  Youth  and  Age 29 

Robert  Burton 31 

Perturbation  of  the  Mind  Rectified 33 

Sir  Thomas  Browne 41 

Of  Toleration 43 

Of  Providence 45 

Thomas  Fuller 49 

Of  Jesting 51 

Of  Self- Praising 53 

Of  Company 55 

John  Milton 59 

On  Education 61 

Abraham  Cowley 75 

Of  Greatness 77 

Of  Myself 85 

Sir  William  Temple  91 

Against  Excessive  Grief 93 

John  Dryden 103 

Of  Heroic  Plays 105 

John  Locke 115 

Of  Practice  and  Habits 117 

Of  Principles 119 

Of  Prejudices 125 

Of  Observation 127 

Of  Reading 129 

Some  Thoughts  Concerning  Education , 131 

vij 


viii  CONTENTS 

PACT 

Daniel  Defoe 137 

The  Instability  of  Human  Glory 139 

Description  of  a  Quack  Doctor 143 

Jonathan  Swift 149 

On  Style 151 

The  Vindication  of  Isaac  Bickerstaff 1 57 

Anthony  Ashley  Cooper,  Earl  of  Shaftesbury 163 

The  Deity  Unfolded  in  His  Works 165 

Sir  Richard  Steele 169 

A  Scene  of  Domestic  Felicity 171 

A  Death-Bed  Scene 177 

The  Trumpet  Club 181 

On  the  Death  of  Friends 185 

The  Spectator  Club 189 

The  Ugly  Club 195 

Sir  Roger  and  the  Widow 199 

Joseph  Addison 205 

The  Character  of  Ned  Softly 207 

Nicolini  and  the  Lions 211 

Fans 215 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Assizes 219 

The  Vision  of  Mirza 223 

The  Art  of  Grinning 229 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Abbey 233 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Play 237 

The  Tory  Fox-Hunter 241 

Alexander  Pope 247 

On  Dedications 249 

On  Epic  Poetry 255 

Philip  Dormer  Stanhope,  Earl  of  Chesterfield 261 

On  Passion 263 

Henry  Fielding 269 

The  Commonwealth  of  Letters 271 

Samuel  Johnson 277 

The  Advantages  of  Living  in  a  Garret 279 

Literary  Courage 285 

David  Hume 289 

Of  the  Delicacy  of  Taste  and  Passion 291 

Of  Simplicity  and  Refinement  in  Writing 295 

William  Shenstone 301 

'      A  Humorist 303 

On  Reserve 3^7 

An  Opinion  of  Ghosts 3*  * 

On  Writing  and  Books 315 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGB 

Thomas  Gray 319 

On  Norman  Architecture 321 

On  the  Philosophy  of  Lord  Bolingbroke 327 

Horace  Walpole,  Earl  of  Orford 331 

Change  of  Style 333 

Oliver  Goldsmith 339 

National  Prejudice 341 

The  Man  in  Black ,  345 

A  Club  of  Authors 349 

Beau  Tibbs 355 

A  City  Night-Piece 361 

Edmund  Burke 363 

On  Taste 365 

William  Cowper  375 

On  Conversation 377 

George  Colman  and  Bonnell  Thornton 381 

The  Ocean  of  Ink 383 

Henry  Mackenzie 389 

Extraordinary  Account  of  Robert  Bums,  the  Ayrshire  Plough- 
man    391 

Sydney  Smith 399 

Fallacies  of  Anti-Reformers o . .  401 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 429 

On  Poesy  or  Art 431 

Francis  Jeffrey 441 

Wavcrley,  or  'Tis  Sixty  Years  Since 443 


OF  SEEMING  WISE 
OF  STUDIES 

OF  TRUTH 

OF  REVENGE 

OF  ENVY 

OF  LOVE 

OF  FRIENDSHIP 

OF  YOUTH  AND  AGE 

BY 

FRANCIS    BACON 
Lord  yerulam 


FRANCIS    BACON,    LORD    VERULAM 
1561 — 1626 

The  advent  of  Francis  Bacon  marks  the  beginning  of  the  essay  as 
a  literary  force  in  England.  To  him  the  English  essay  owes,  if  not 
inception,  at  least  the  first  masterly  exhibition  of  its  strength.  Born 
in  1561,  of  aristocratic  parents,  he  lived  in  the  age  of  Shakespeare, 
Jonson,  Spenser,  and  Raleigh,  and  was  brilliantly  educated  in  the 
learning  of  that  day.  His  legal  acumen  was  remarkable.  From  a 
solicitor-generalship  in  1607  he  rose,  step  by  step,  to  the  summit  of  his 
profession,  being  made  Lord  High  Chancellor  in  1618,  with  the  title 
of  Baron  Verulam.  After  three  years  in  office  he  was  charged  with 
bribery  and  corruption.  He  pleaded  guilty  to  having  received  presents 
from  litigants  in  his  courts,  though  it  may  be  said  in  extenuation  of  his 
conduct  that  such  was  the  common  practice  of  the  judges  of  his  time. 
He  was  sentenced  to  pay  a  fine  and  to  lie  in  the  Tower  during  the 
pleasure  of  the  King.  King  James  was  magnanimous  enough  to  remit 
the  sentence,  and  Bacon  retired  to  his  country  home,  where  he  died 
in  1626. 

Bacon's  position  as  an  essayist  is  peculiar.  He  cannot  be  compared 
with  Addison  or  Hazlitt;  for  he  has  no  resemblance  to  them.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  jotting  down  his  ideas  in  a  Promus  or  common- 
place book;  and  occasionally  brought  two  or  three  thoughts  on  the 
same  subject  together  and  followed  them  out  or  added  others  which 
suggested  themselves.  By  and  by  he  published  them  under  various 
headings — "  Virtue,"  "  Fame,"  "  Empire,"  and  the  like.  This  was  the 
origin  of  the  "  Essays."  He  illustrates  them  by  many  quotations  from 
his  favorite  authors  and  some  images  of  his  own.  He  is  no  mere 
maximist  like  La  Rochefoucauld;  for  each  is  a  connected  whole,  though 
sometimes  the  thread  of  connection  is  slight.  They  are  miracles  of 
conciseness;  there  is  not  a  superfluous  word.  But  this  very  brevity 
admirably  suits  the  matter.  Bacon  cuts  deep  into  the  nature  of  man 
and  lays  bare  his  inmost  heart.  Some  were  evidently  written  from  his 
court  experience.  Others,  like  "  Of  Truth,"  breathe  the  spirit  of  a 
noble  and  high-minded  philosopher  who  had  seen  through  the  vain 
shows  of  the  world. 

If  Bacon  resembles  any  writer  it  is  Montaigne.  There  is  the  same 
old-time  flavor  about  both,  the  same  habit  of  moralizing  on  human  life. 
But  the  Frenchman  is  the  lighter  character;  he  is  gossipy  and,  occa- 
sionally, provincial.  Bacon  is  always  grave,  and  his  writings,  except- 
ing the  language,  have  nothing  distinctively  English  about  them.  He 
writes  as  the  philosopher  in  his  study,  not  as  the  observer  of  every- 
day life  in  field  and  street.  It  is  abstract  truth  he  gives  us,  but  relieved 
from  all  aridness  by  illustration  and  quotation.  They  both  drew  from 
the  same  sources ;  they  were  both  keen  noticers  of  human  character ; 
but  they  presented  the  fruits  of  their  study  in  different  ways.  Mon- 
taigne's essays  smell  of  the  Gascon  fields;  the  Frenchman  comes 
through  on  every  page.  Bacon  poured  the  ore  of  his  brain  into  a 
refining  furnace  and  drew  off  from  it  all  "  turbid  mixture  of  contem- 
poraneousness." Hence  his  work  will  have  charms  for  men  of  every 
age  and  every  nation. 

The  essays  are  rough  sketches  to  be  filled  up  at  will.  They  suggest 
rather  than  satisfy.  Many  since  the  author's  day  have  thought  it 
advisable  to  tag  on  to  them  their  own  reflections,  some  good,  some 
indifferent,  but  all  very  far  below  the  "  brave  original."  He  has  left 
us  not  a  book  for  the  hour,  but  a  book  for  all  time.  One  can  revert 
to  it  again  and  again  and  each  time  find  rich  treasure.  It  is  a  mine  of 
quaint  conceits  and  wise  saws,  a  very  orchard  of  the  apples  of  wisdom. 

2 


OF  SEEMING  WISE 

IT  hath  been  an  opinion,  that  the  French  are  wiser  than 
they  seem,  and  the  Spaniards  seem  wiser  than  they  are ; 
but  howsoever  it  be  between  nations,  certainly  it  is  so 
between  man  and  man.  For,  as  the  Apostle  saith  of  godliness, 
"  having  a  show  of  godliness,  but  denying  the  power  thereof," 
so  certainly  there  are,  in  points  of  wisdom  and  sufficiency,* 
that  do  nothing  or  little  very  solemnly — "  Magna  conatu  nu- 
gas."  ^  It  is  a  ridiculous  thing  and  fit  for  a  satire  to  persons  of 
judgment,  to  see  what  shifts  these  formalists  '  have,  and  what 
prospectives  to  make  superficies  to  seem  body  that  hath  depth 
and  bulk.  Some  are  so  close  and  reserved,  as  they  will  not  show 
their  wares  but  by  a  dark  light,  and  seem  always  to  keep  back 
somewhat :  and  when  they  know  within  themselves  they  speak 
of  that  they  do  not  well  know,  would  nevertheless  seem  to 
others  to  know  of  that  which  they  may  not  well  speak.  Some 
help  themselves  with  countenance  and  gesture,  and  are  wise 
by  signs ;  as  Cicero  saith  of  Piso,  that  when  he  answered  him 
he  fetched  one  of  his  brows  up  to  his  forehead,  and  bent  the 
other  down  to  his  chin — "  Respondes,  altera  ad  frontem  suhlato, 
altera  ad  mentum  depresso  supercilia,  crudelitatem  tibi  nan 
placer e.''*  Some  think  to  bear  it  by  speaking  a  great  word,  and 
being  peremptory;  and  go  on,  and  take  by  admittance  that 
which  they  cannot  make  good.  Some,  whatsoever  is  beyond 
their  reach,  will  seem  to  despise  or  make  light  of  it,  as  imperti- 
nent or  curious,*  and  so  would  have  their  ignorance  seem  judg- 
ment. Some  are  never  without  a  difference,  and  commonly  by 
amusing  men  with  a  subtilty,  blanch  '  the  matter ;  of  whom 
A.  Gellius  saith :  "  Hotninem  delirum,  qui  verborum  minutiis 
rerum  frangit  pondera."*    Of  which  kind  also  Rato,  in  his 

>  Ability.  •  Evade. 

•  Terence,  **  Heaut"  iv.  t,  |^  •  The  quotation  is  not  from  Gellias, 

■  i.e.  The  seeming  wise,  but  from  Quintilian  "  on  Seoeca,"  iv.  (. 

•Irrelevant  or  trifliaff.  (Whately), 


4  BACON 

"  Protagoras,"  bringeth  in  Prodicus  in  scorn  and  maketh  him 
make  a  speech  that  consisteth  of  distinctions  from  the  begin- 
ning to  the  end.  Generally,  such  men  in  all  deliberations  find 
ease  to  be  of  the  negative  side,  and  affect  a  credit  to  object  and 
foretell  difficulties:  for  when  propositions  are  denied  there  is 
an  end  of  them;  but  if  they  be  allowed,  it  requireth  a  new 
work:  which  false  point  of  wisdom  is  the  bane  of  business. 
To  conclude,  there  is  no  decaying  merchant  or  inward  beggar  ^ 
hath  so  many  tricks  to  uphold  the  credit  of  their  wealth  as 
these  empty  persons  have  to  maintain  the  credit  of  their  suf- 
ficiency. Seeming  wise  men  may  make  shift  to  get  opinion: 
but  let  no  man  choose  them  for  employment ;  for  certainly  you 
were  better  take  for  business  a  man  somewhat  absurd  ®  than 
over-formal.^ 

*  One  secretly  a  bankrupt  (Whately).  ■  Defective  in  judgment. 

•Too  pretentious. 


OF  STUDIES 

STUDIES  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability. 
Their  chief  use  for  delight,  is  in  privateness  and  retir- 
ing ;  for  ornament,  is  in  discourse ;  and  for  ability,  is  in 
the  judgment  and  disposition  of  business.  For  expert  men 
can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  one  by  one; 
but  the  general  counsels,  and  the  plots  and  marshalling  of 
affairs,  come  best  from  those  that  are  learned.  To  spend  too 
much  time  in  studies  is  sloth ;  to  use  them  too  much  for  orna- 
ment is  affectation;  to  make  judgment  wholly  by  their  rules 
is  the  humor  of  a  scholar.  They  perfect  nature  and  are  per- 
fected by  experience:  for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural 
plants,  that  need  pruning  by  study:  and  studies  themselves 
do  give  forth  directions  too  much  at  large,  except  they  be 
bounded  in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  contemn  studies ;  sim- 
ple men  admire  them ;  and  wise  men  use  them :  for  they  teach 
not  their  own  use;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them,  and 
above  them,  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to  contradict  and 
confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk 
and  discourse,  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are  to 
be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed 
and  digested :  that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts ; 
others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously ;  ^  and  some  few  to  be  read 
wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention.  Some  books  also 
may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them  by  others : 
but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  important  arguments,  and 
the  meaner  sort  of  books :  else  distilled  books  are,  like  common 
distilled  waters,  flashy  ^  things.  Reading  maketh  a  full  man, 
conference  a  ready  man,  and  writing  an  exact  man.  And 
therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great  mem- 
ory;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit;  and 

*  Attentively.  he    remarks    that    the    most    offensive 

*  Bacon  ases  the  word  in  the  sense  of       tastes   are   "  bitter,   sour,  harsh,   watei> 
•*  tasteless."   In  his  "  Natural  History  "      ish,  or  flashy." 

5  . 


0  BACON 

if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much  cunning,  to  seem  to 
know  that  he  doth  not.  Histories  make  men  wise;  poets 
witty;  the  mathematics  subtle;  natural  philosophy  deep; 
moral,  grave;  logic  and  rhetoric  able  to  contend:  Abeunt 
studia  in  mores.  Nay,  there  is  no  stond  ^  or  impediment  in 
the  wit,  but  may  be  wrought  out  by  fit  studies :  like  as  diseases 
of  the  body  may  have  appropriate  exercises.  Bowling  is  good 
for  the  stone  and  reins ;  shooting  for  the  lungs  and  breast ;  a 
gentle  walking  for  the  stomach ;  riding  for  the  head ;  and  the 
like.  So,  if  a  man's  wits  be  wandering,  let  him  study  the 
mathematics;  for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away 
never  so  little,  he  must  begin  again:  if  his  wit  be  not  apt  to 
distinguish  or  find  differences,  let  him  study  the  school-men; 
for  they  are  Cymini  sect  ores.*  If  he  be  not  apt  to  beat  over 
matters,  and  to  call  up  one  thing  to  prove  and  illustrate  an- 
other, let  him  study  the  lawyer's  cases :  so  every  defect  of  the 
mind  may  have  a  special  receipt. 

'  Obstacle.  min-seed,    which    is    one   of    the    least 

*  Hair-splitters;  lit.  "dividers  of  cum>      seeds"  (Bacon)> 


OF  TRUTH 

WHAT  is  truth  ?  said  jesting  Pilate ;  and  would  not  stay 
for  an  answer.  Certainly  there  be  that  delight  in 
giddiness;  and  count  it  a  bondage  to  fix  a  belief; 
affecting  free-will  in  thinking,  as  well  as  in  acting.  And  though 
the  sect  of  philosophers  of  that  kind  be  gone,  yet  there  remain 
certain  discoursing  wits,  which  are  of  the  same  veins,  though 
there  be  not  so  much  blood  in  them  as  was  in  those  of  the 
ancients.  But  it  is  not  only  the  difficulty  and  labor  which  men 
take  in  finding  out  of  truth ;  nor  again,  that  when  it  is  found, 
it  imposeth  upon  men's  thoughts ;  that  doth  bring  lyes  in  favor : 
but  a  natural  though  corrupt  love  of  the  lye  itself.  One  of 
the  later  school  of  the  Grecians  ^  examineth  the  matter,  and 
is  at  a  stand  to  think  what  should  be  in  it,  that  men  should  love 
lyes;  where  neither  they  make  for  pleasure,  as  with  poets; 
nor  for  advantage,  as  with  the  merchant ;  but  for  the  lye's  sake. 
But  I  cannot  tell :  this  same  truth  is  a  naked  and  open  day- 
light, that  doth  not  show  the  masks,  and  mummeries,  and  tri- 
umphs of  the  world,  half  so  stately  and  daintily  as  candle-lights. 
Truth  may  perhaps  come  to  the  price  of  a  pearl,  that  showeth 
best  by  day ;  but  it  will  not  rise  to  the  price  of  a  diamond  or 
carbuncle,  that  showeth  best  in  varied  lights.  A  mixture  of  a 
lye  doth  ever  add  pleasure.  Doth  any  man  doubt,  that  if  there 
were  taken  out  of  men's  minds,  vain  opinions,  flattering  hopes, 
false  valuations,  imaginations  as  one  would,  and  the  like ;  but 
it  would  leave  the  minds  of  a  number  of  men,  poor  shrunken 
things ;  full  of  melancholy  and  indisposition,  and  unpleasing 
to  themselves?  One  of  the  fathers,  in  great  severity,  called 
poesy,  vinum  dcemonum;^  because  it  filleth  the  imagination,  and 
yet  it  is  but  with  the  shadow  of  a  lye.  But  it  is  not  the  lye 
that  passeth  through  the  mind,  but  the  lye  that  sinketh  in,  and 
settleth  in  it,  that  doth  the  hurt^  such  as  we  spake  of  before. 

'  Lucian  in  the  "  Philopseudes."  »  "  Wine  of  divils."—Augusitne. 

7 


8  BACON 

But  howsoever  these  things  are  thus  in  men's  depraved  judg- 
ments and  affections,  yet  truth,  which  only  doth  judge  itself, 
teacheth,  that  the  inquiry  of  truth,  which  is  the  love-making, 
or  wooing  of  it ;  the  knowledge  of  truth,  which  is  the  presence 
of  it ;  and  the  belief  of  truth,  which  is  the  enjoying  of  it ;  is  the 
sovereign  good  of  human  nature.  The  first  creature  of  God, 
in  the  works  of  the  days,  was  the  light  of  the  sense;  the  last 
was  the  light  of  reason ;  and  his  Sabbath  work  ever  since  is  the 
illumination  of  his  Spirit.  First  he  breathed  light  upon  the 
face  of  the  matter,  or  chaos ;  then  he  breathed  light  into  the  face 
of  man ;  and  still  he  breatheth  and  inspireth  light  into  the  face 
of  his  chosen.  The  poet  ^  that  beautified  the  sect,  that  wa? 
otherwise  inferior  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excellently  well :  "  It  is 
a  pleasure  to  stand  upon  the  shore  and  to  see  ships  tost  upon 
the  sea ;  a  pleasure  to  stand  in  the  window  of  a  castle,  and  to 
see  a  battle,  and  the  adventures  thereof,  below ;  but  no  pleasure 
is  comparable  to  the  standing  upon  the  vantage  ground  of 
truth,  a  hill  not  to  be  commanded,  and  where  the  air  is  always 
clear  and  serene :  and  to  see  the  errors,  and  wanderings,  and 
mists,  and  tempests,  in  the  vale  below:"  so  always,  that  this 
prospect  be  with  pity,  and  not  with  swelling  or  pride.  Cer- 
tainly, it  is  heaven  upon  earth  to  have  a  man's  mind  move  in 
charity,  rest  in  providence,  and  turn  upon  the  poles  of  truth. 

To  pass  from  theological  and  philosophical  truth,  to  the 
truth  of  civil  business ;  it  will  be  acknowledged,  even  by  those 
that  practise  it  not,  that  clear  and  round  dealing  is  the  honor 
of  man's  nature;  and  that  mixture  of  falsehood  is  like  alloy 
in  coin  of  gold  and  silver:  which  may  make  the  metal  work 
the  better,  but  it  embaseth  it.  For  these  winding  and  crooked 
courses  are  the  goings  of  the  serpent;  which  goeth  basely 
upon  the  belly,  and  not  upon  the  feet.  There  is  no  vice  that 
doth  so  cover  a  man  with  shame,  as  to  be  found  false  and 
perfidious.  And  therefore  Montaigne  saith  prettily,  when  he 
inquired  the  reason,  why  the  word  of  the  lye  should  be  such  a 
disgrace,  and  such  an  odious  charge?  Saith  he,  "If  it  be 
well  weighed,  to  say  that  a  man  lyeth,  is  as  much  as  to  say, 
that  he  is  brave  towards  God,  and  a  coward  towards  men.  For 
a  lye  faces  God,  and  shrinks  from  man."     Surely  the  wicked- 

•  Lucretius.     The   sect  referred   to   is  the  Epicurean. 


OF   TRUTH 


ness  of  falsehood,  and  breach  of  faith,  cannot  possibly  be  so 
highly  expressed,  as  in  that  it  shall  be  the  last  peal  to  call  the 
judgments  of  God  upon  the  generations  of  men :  it  being  fore- 
told, that  when  Christ  cometh  "  he  shall  not  find  faith  upon  the 
earth." 


OF    REVENGE 

REVENGE  is  a  kind  of  wild  justice,  which  the  more  a 
man's  nature  runs  to,  the  more  ought  law  to  weed  it 
out.  For  as  for  the  first  wrong,  it  doth  but  offend  the 
law;  but  the  revenge  of  that  wrong  putteth  the  law  out  of 
office.  Certainly  in  taking  revenge,  a  man  is  but  even  with 
his  enemy ;  but  in  passing  it  over,  he  is  superior :  for  it  is  a 
prince's  part  to  pardon.  And  Solomon,  I  am  sure,  saith,  "  It 
is  the  glory  of  a  man  to  pass  by  an  offence."  That  which  is 
past  is  gone  and  irrevocable,  and  wise  men  have  enough  to 
do  with  things  present  and  to  come:  therefore  they  do  but 
trifle  with  themselves  that  labor  in  past  matters.  There  is  no 
man  doth  a  wrong  for  the  wrong's  sake ;  but  thereby  to  pur- 
chase himself  profit,  or  pleasure,  or  honor,  or  the  like.  There- 
fore why  should  I  be  angry  with  a  man  for  loving  himself  better 
than  me?  And  if  any  man  should  do  wrong,  merely  out  of 
ill-nature,  why,  yet  it  is  but  like  the  thorn  or  brier,  which  prick 
or  scratch,  because  they  can  do  no  other.  The  most  tolerable 
sort  of  revenge  is  for  those  wrongs  which  there  is  no  law  to 
remedy :  but  then  let  a  man  take  heed  the  revenge  be  such  as 
there  is  no  law  to  punish ;  else  a  man's  enemy  is  still  before- 
hand, and  it  is  two  for  one.  Some,  when  they  take  revenge, 
are  desirous  the  party  should  know  whence  it  cometh :  this  is 
the  more  generous.  For  the  delight  seemeth  to  be  not  so  much 
in  doing  the  hurt,  as  in  making  the  party  repent :  but  base  and 
crafty  cowards  are  like  the  arrow  that  flieth  in  the  dark.  Cos- 
mus,  Duke  of  Florence,  had  a  desperate  saying  against  per- 
fidious or  neglecting  friends,  as  if  those  wrongs  were  unpar- 
donable. "  You  shall  read,"  saith  he, "  that  we  are  commanded 
to  forgfive  our  enemies ;  but  you  never  read,  that  we  are  con- 
manded  to  forgive  our  friends."  But  yet  the  spirit  of  Job  was 
in  a  better  tune ;  "  Shall  we,"  saith  he,  "  take  good  at  God's 
hands,  and  not  be  content  to  take  evil  also  ?  "    And  so  of 


I a  BACON 

friends  in  a  proportion.  This  is  certain,  that  a  man  that 
studieth  revenge,  keeps  his  own  wounds  green,  which  other- 
wise would  heal  and  do  well.  Public  revenges  are  for  the  most 
part  fortunate:  as  that  for  the  death  of  Caesar;  for  the  death 
of  Pertinax ;  for  the  death  of  Henry  III  of  France ;  and  many 
more :  but  in  private  revenges  it  is  not  so ;  nay,  rather,  vindic- 
tive persons  live  the  life  of  witches;  who  as  they  are  mis- 
chievous, so  end  they  unfortunate. 


OF  ENVY 

THERE  be  none  of  the  affections  which  have  been  noted 
to  fascinate  or  bewitch,  but  love  and  envy.  They  both 
have  vehement  wishes ;  they  frame  themselves  readily 
into  imaginations  and  suggestions :  and  they  come  easily  into 
the  eye;  especially  upon  the  presence  of  the  objects;  which 
are  the  points  that  conduce  to  fascination,  if  any  such  thing 
there  be.  We  see  likewise,  the  scripture  calleth  envy  an  evil 
eye:  and  the  astrologers  call  the  evil  influences  of  the  stars 
evil  aspects ;  so  that  still  there  seemeth  to  be  acknowledged 
in  the  act  of  envy,  an  ejaculation,  or  irradiation  of  the  eye. 
Nay,  some  have  been  so  curious,  as  to  note  that  the  times 
when  the  stroke  or  percussion  of  an  envious  eye  doth  most 
hurt,  are  when  the  party  envied  is  beheld  in  glory  or  triumph ; 
for  that  sets  an  edge  upon  envy :  and,  besides,  at  such  times, 
the  spirits  of  the  person  envied  do  come  forth  most  into  the 
outward  parts,  and  so  meet  the  blow. 

But  leaving  these  curiosities,  though  not  unworthy  to  be 
thought  on  in  fit  place,  we  will  handle :  what  persons  are  apt 
to  envy  others;  what  persons  are  most  subject  to  be  envied 
themselves ;  and  what  is  the  difference  between  public  and 
private  envy. 

A  man  that  hath  no  virtue  in  himself,  ever  envieth  virtue  in 
others.  For  men's  minds  will  either  feed  upon  their  own  good, 
or  upon  others'  evil ;  and  who  wanteth  the  one,  will  prey  upon 
the  other:  and  whoso  is  out  of  hope  to  attain  to  another's 
virtue,  will  seek  to  come  at  even  hand  by  depressing  another's 
fortune. 

A  man  that  is  busy  and  inquisitive  is  commonly  envious: 
for  to  know  much  of  other  men's  matters  cannot  be,  because 
all  that  ado  may  concern  his  own  estate:  therefore  it  must 
needs  be,  that  he  taketh  a  kind  of  play-pleasure  in  looking 
upon  the  fortunes  of  others ;  neither  can  he  that  mindeth  but 

»3 


14  BACON 

his  own  business  find  much  matter  for  envy.  For  envy  is  a 
gadding  passion,  and  walketh  the  streets,  and  doth  not  keep 
home ;  "  Non  est  curiosus,  qidn  idem  sit  malevolus"  * 

Men  of  noble  birth  are  noted  to  be  envious  towards  new 
men  when  they  rise :  for  the  distance  is  altered :  and  it  is  like 
a  deceit  of  the  eye,  that  when  others  come  on,  they  think  them- 
selves go  back. 

Deformed  persons  and  eunuchs,  and  old  men  and  bastards, 
are  envious:  for  he  that  cannot  possibly  mend  his  own  case, 
will  do  what  he  can  to  impair  another's ;  except  these  defects 
light  upon  a  very  brave  and  heroical  nature,  which  thinketh 
to  make  his  natural  wants  part  of  his  honor ;  in  that  it  should 
be  said,  that  a  eunuch  or  a  lame  man  did  such  great  matters ; 
affecting  the  honor  of  a  miracle ;  as  it  was  in  Narses  the  eunuch, 
and  Agesilaus  and  Tamerlane,  that  were  lame  men. 

The  same  is  the  case  of  men  that  rise  after  calamities  and 
misfortunes ;  for  they  are  as  men  fallen  out  of  the  times ;  and 
think  other  men's  harm  a  redemption  of  their  own  sufferings. 

They  that  desire  to  excel  in  too  many  matters,  out  of  levity 
and  vainglory,  are  ever  envious,  for  they  cannot  want  work; 
it  being  impossible  but  many,  in  some  one  of  those  things, 
should  surpass  them.  Which  was  the  character  of  Adrian  the 
emperor,  that  mortally  envied  poets,  and  painters,  and  artificers, 
in  works  wherein  he  had  a  vein  to  excel. 

Lastly,  near  kinsfolks,  and.  fellows  in  office,  and  those  that 
have  been  bred  together,  are  more  apt  to  envy  their  equals 
when  they  are  raised.  For  it  doth  upbraid  unto  them  their 
own  fortunes,  and  pointeth  at  them,  and  cometh  oftener  in 
their  remembrance,  and  incurreth  likewise  more  into  the  note 
of  others ;  and  envy  ever  redoubleth  from  speech  and  fame. 
Cain's  envy  was  the  more  vile  and  malignant  towards  his 
brother  Abel,  because,  when  his  sacrifice  was  better  accepted, 
there  was  nobody  to  look  on.  Thus  much  for  those  that  are 
apt  to  envy. 

Concerning  those  that  are  more  or  less  subject  to  envy: 
First,  persons  of  eminent  virtue,  when  they  are  advanced,  are 
less  envied.  For  their  fortune  seemeth  but  due  unto  them ; 
and  no  man  cnvieth  the  payment  of  a  debt,  but  rewards,  and 

*  "  There  is  no  man  inquisitive  who  is  not  also  malevolent."— P/aw/Mj,  "  Stich." 
i.  sec.  5S. 


OF  ENVY 


15 


liberality  rather.  Again  envy  is  ever  joined  with  the  compar- 
ing of  a  man's  self ;  and  where  there  is  no  comparison,  no  envy ; 
and  therefore  kings  are  not  envied  but  by  kings.  Nevertheless 
it  is  to  be  noted,  that  unworthy  persons  are  most  envied  at 
their  first  coming  in,  and  afterwards  overcome  it  better ;  where- 
as contrariwise,  persons  of  worth  and  merit  are  most  envied 
when  their  fortune  continueth  long.  For  by  that  time,  though 
their  virtue  be  the  same,  yet  it  hath  not  the  same  lustre ;  for 
fresh  men  grow  up  that  darken  it. 

Persons  of  noble  blood  are  less  envied  in  their  rising;  for 
it  seemeth  but  right  done  to  their  birth :  besides,  there  seemeth 
not  much  added  to  their  fortune :  and  envy  is  as  the  sun-beams, 
that  beat  hotter  upon  a  bank  or  steep  rising  ground  than  upon 
a  flat.  And  for  the  same  reason,  those  that  are  advanced  by 
degrees,  are  less  envied  than  those  that  are  advanced  suddenly, 
and  per  saltimi. 

Those  that  have  joined  with  their  honor,  great  travels,  cares, 
or  perils,  are  less  subject  to  envy:  for  men  think  that  they 
earn  their  honors  hardly,  and  pity  them  sometimes ;  and  pity 
ever  healeth  envy :  wherefore  you  shall  observe,  that  the  more 
deep  and  sober  sort  of  politic  persons,  in  their  greatness,  are 
ever  bemoaning  themselves  what  a  life  they  lead,  chanting  a 
"  Quanta  patimur  " :  not  that  they  feel  it  so,  but  only  to  abate 
the  edge  of  envy.  But  this  is  to  be  understood  of  business  that 
is  laid  upon  men,  and  not  such  as  they  call  unto  themselves: 
for  nothing  increaseth  envy  more,  than  an  unnecessary  and 
ambitious  engrossing  of  business :  and  nothing  doth  extinguish 
envy  more,  than  for  a  great  person  to  preserve  all  other  in- 
ferior officers  in  their  full  rights  and  pre-eminence  of  their 
places :  for  by  that  means  there  be  so  many  screens  between 
him  and  envy. 

Above  all,  those  are  most  subject  to  envy,  which  carry  the 
greatness  of  their  fortunes  in  an  insolent  and  proud  manner: 
being  never  well  but  while  they  are  showing  how  great  they 
are,  either  by  outward  pomp,  or  by  triumphing  over  all  oppo- 
sition or  competition ;  whereas  wise  men  will  rather  do  sacri- 
fice to  envy,  in  suffering  themselves  sometimes  of  purpose  to 
be  crossed  and  overborne  in  things  that  do  not  much  concern 
them.  Notwithstanding,  so  much  is  true :  that  the  carriage  of 
greatness  in  a  plain  and  open  manner,  so  it  be  without  arro- 


I 6  BACON 

gancy  and  vainglory,  doth  draw  less  envy,  than  if  it  be  in  a 
more  crafty  and  cunning  fashion.  For  in  that  course  a  man 
doth  but  disavow  fortune,  and  seemeth  to  be  conscious  of  his 
own  want  in  worth,  and  doth  but  teach  others  to  envy  him. 

Lastly,  to  conclude  this  part;  as  we  said  in  the  beginning, 
that  the  act  of  envy  had  somewhat  in  it  of  witchcraft,  so  there 
is  no  other  cure  of  envy,  but  the  cure  of  witchcraft :  and  that 
is,  to  remove  the  lot,  as  they  call  it,  and  to  lay  it  upon  another. 
For  which  purpose,  the  wiser  sort  of  great  persons  bring  in 
ever  upon  the  stage  somebody  upon  whom  to  derive  the  envy 
that  would  come  upon  themselves :  sometimes  upon  ministers 
and  servants,  sometimes  upon  colleagues  and  associates,  and 
the  like :  and  for  that  turn,  there  are  never  wanting  some  per- 
sons of  violent  and  undertaking  natures,  who,  so  they  may  have 
power  and  business,  will  take  it  at  any  cost. 

Now  to  speak  of  public  envy.  There  is  yet  some  good  in 
public  envy,  whereas  in  private  there  is  none.  For  public  envy 
is  as  an  ostracism,  that  eclipseth  men  when  they  grow  too  great : 
and  therefore  it  is  a  bridle  also  to  great  ones,  to  keep  them 
within  bounds. 

This  envy,  being  in  the  Latin  word  invidia,  goeth  in  the 
modern  languages  by  the  name  of  "  discontent  " ;  of  which  we 
shall  speak  in  handling  "  sedition."  It  is  a  disease  in  a  state 
like  to  infection :  for  as  infection  spreadeth  upon  that  which 
is  sound,  and  tainteth  it ;  so  when  envy  is  gotten  once  into 
a  state,  it  traduceth  even  the  best  actions  thereof,  and  turneth 
them  into  an  ill-odor ;  and  therefore  there  is  little  won  by  in- 
termingling of  plausible  actions:  for  that  doth  argue  but  a 
weakness  and  fear  of  envy,  which  hurteth  so  much  the  more; 
as  it  is  likewise  usual  in  infections,  which  if  you  fear  them, 
you  call  them  upon  you. 

This  public  envy  seemeth  to  beat  chiefly  upon  principal  offi- 
cers or  ministers,  rather  than  upon  kings  and  estates  them- 
selves. But  this  is  a  sure  rule,  that  if  the  envy  upon  the  min- 
ister be  great,  when  the  cause  of  it  in  him  is  small ;  or  if  the 
envy  be  general  in  a  manner  upon  all  the  ministers  of  an  estate, 
then  the  envy,  though  hidden,  is  truly  upon  the  estate  itself. 
And  so  much  of  public  envy  or  discontentment,  and  the  differ- 
ence thereof  from  private  envy,  which  was  handled  in  the  first 
place. 


OF  ENVY  17 

We  will  add  this  in  general  touching-  the  affection  of  envy : 
that  of  all  other  affections  it  is  the  most  importune  and  con- 
tinual :  for  of  other  affections  there  is  occasion  given  but  now 
and  then ;  and  therefore  it  is  well  said,  "  Invidia  festos  dies  non 
agit "  :  ^  for  it  is  ever  working  upon  some  other.  And  it  is 
also  noted,  that  love  and  envy  to  make  a  man  pine,  which  other 
affections  do  not,  because  they  are  not  so  continual. 

It  is  also  the  vilest  affection,  and  the  most  depraved;  for 
which  cause  it  is  the  proper  attribute  of  the  devil,  who  is 
called  "  the  envious  man,  that  soweth  tares  among  the  wheat 
by  night  " :  as  it  always  cometh  to  pass,  that  envy  worketh 
subtilely,  and  in  the  dark ;  and  to  the  prejudice  of  good  things, 
such  as  is  the  wheat. 

'  "  Envy  keeps  no  holidays." 


2— Vol.  57 


OF   LOVE 

THE  stage  is  more  beholden  to  love,  than  the  life  of  man. 
For  as  to  the  stage,  love  is  ever  a  matter  of  comedies, 
and  now  and  then  of  tragedies;  but  in  life  it  doth 
much  mischief,  sometimes  like  a  siren,  sometimes  hke  a  fury. 
You  may  observe,  that  amongst  all  the  great  and  worthy 
persons,  whereof  the  memory  remaineth,  either  ancient  or  re- 
cent, there  is  not  one  that  hath  been  transported  to  the  mad 
degree  of  love;  which  shows,  that  great  spirits  and  great 
business  do  keep  out  this  weak  passion.  You  must  except, 
nevertheless,  Marcus  Antonius  the  half  partner  of  the  Empire 
of  Rome,  and  Appius  Claudius  the  Decemvir  and  lawgiver; 
whereof  the  former  was  indeed  a  voluptuous  man  and  inordi- 
nate ;  but  the  latter  was  an  austere  and  wise  man :  and  there- 
fore it  seems,  though  rarely,  that  love  can  find  entrance,  not 
only  into  an  open  heart,  but  also  into  a  heart  well  fortified, 
if  watch  be  not  well  kept.  It  is  a  poor  saying  of  Epicurus: 
"  Satis  magnum  alter  alteri  theatrum  stimus;  "  ^  as  if  man,  made 
for  the  contemplation  of  heaven,  and  all  noble  objects,  should 
do  nothing  but  kneel  before  a  little  idol,  and  make  himself 
subject,  though  not  of  the  mouth,  as  beasts  are,  yet  of  the  eye, 
which  was  given  him  for  higher  purposes.  It  is  a  strange 
thing  to  note  the  excess  of  this  passion ;  and  how  it  braves 
the  nature  and  value  of  things  by  this,  that  the  speaking  in  a 
perpetual  hyperbole  is  comely  in  nothing  but  in  love.  Neither 
is  it  merely  in  the  phrase ;  for  whereas  it  hath  been  well  said, 
that  the  arch-flatterer,  with  whom  all  the  petty  flatterers  have 
intelligence,  is  a  man's  self ;  certainly  the  lover  is  more.  For 
there  was  never  proud  man  thought  so  absurdly  well  of  him- 
self as  the  lover  doth  of  the  person  loved;  and  therefore  it 
was  well  said,  that  it  is  impossible  to  love,  and  to  be  wise. 
Neither  doth  this  weakness  appear  to  others  only,  and  not  to 

^ "  We  are  a  sufficiently  great  spectacle  to  one  another."— S^n^ca,  "  Ep.'^ 
f.  7,  sec.  II. 

19 


so  BACON 

the  party  loved,  but  to  the  loved  most  of  all ;  except  the  love 
be  reciproque.  For  it  is  a  true  rule,  that  love  is  ever  rewarded 
either  with  the  reciproque,  or  with  an  inward  and  secret  con- 
tempt: by  how  much  the  more  men  ought  to  beware  of  this 
passion,  which  loseth  not  only  other  things  but  itself.  As  for 
the  other  losses,  the  poet's  relation  doth  well  figure  them; 
that  he  that  preferred  Helena  quitted  the  gifts  of  Juno  and 
Pallas :  for  whosoever  esteemeth  too  much  of  amorous  affec- 
tion quitteth  both  riches  and  wisdom.  This  passion  hath  its 
floods  in  the  very  times  of  weakness,  which  are  great  pros- 
perity, and  great  adversity;  though  this  latter  hath  been  less 
observed :  which  both  times  kindle  love,  and  make  it  more 
fervent,  and  therefore  show  it  to  be  the  child  of  folly.  They 
do  best  who,  if  they  cannot  but  admit  love,  yet  make  it  keep 
quarter;  and  sever  it  wholly  from  their  serious  affairs  and 
actions  of  life :  for  if  it  check  once  with  business,  it  troubleth 
men's  fortunes,  and  maketh  men  that  they  can  no  ways  be 
true  to  their  own  ends.  I  know  not  how,  but  martial  men  are 
given  to  love:  I  think  it  is,  but  as  they  are  given  to  wine; 
for  perils  commonly  ask  to  be  paid  in  pleasures.  There  is  in 
man's  nature  a  secret  inclination  and  motion  towards  love  of 
others,  which,  if  it  be  not  spent  upon  some  one  or  a  few,  doth 
naturally  spread  itself  towards  many,  and  maketh  men  to  be- 
come humane  and  charitable ;  as  it  is  seen  sometimes  in  friars. 
Nuptial  love  maketh  mankind ;  friendly  love  perfecteth  it ; 
but  wanton  love  corrupteth  and  embaseth  it. 


OF   FRIENDSHIP 

IT  had  been  hard  for  him  that  spake  it  to  have  put  more 
truth  and  untruth  together,  in  few  words,  than  in  that 
speech :  "  Whosoever  is  delighted  in  soHtude  is  either 
a  wild  beast  or  a  god."  ^  For  it  is  most  true,  that  a  natural 
and  secret  hatred,  and  aversation  towards  society,  in  any  man, 
hath  somewhat  of  the  savage  beast:  but  it  is  most  untrue, 
that  it  should  have  any  character  at  all  of  the  divine  nature, 
except  it  proceed,  not  out  of  a  pleasure  in  solitude,  but  out 
of  a  love  and  desire  to  sequester  a  man's  self  for  a  higher  con- 
versation ;  such  as  is  found  to  have  been  falsely  and  feignedly 
in  some  of  the  heathen ;  as  Epimenides  the  Candian,  Numa 
the  Roman,  Empedocles  the  Sicilian,  and  Apollonius  of  Tyana ; 
and  truly  and  really  in  divers  of  the  ancient  hermits  and  holy 
fathers  of  the  Church.  But  little  do  men  perceive  what  sol- 
itude is,  and  how  far  it  extendeth.  For  a  crowd  is  not  com- 
pany, and  faces  are  but  a  gallery  of  pictures ;  and  talk  but  a 
tinkling  cymbal,  where  there  is  no  love.  The  Latin  adage 
meeteth  with  it  a  little,.  "  Magna  civitas,  magna  solitudo  " ;  ^ 
because  in  a  great  town  friends  are  scattered,  so  that  there  is 
not  that  fellowship,  for  the  most  part,  which  is  in  less  neigh- 
borhoods. But  we  may  go  further,  and  affirm  most  truly, 
that  it  is  a  mere  and  miserable  solitude,  to  want  true  friends, 
without  which  the  world  is  but  a  wilderness.  And  even  in  this 
sense  also  of  solitude,  whosoever  in  the  frame  of  his  nature 
and  affections  is  unfit  for  friendship,  he  taketh  it  of  the  beast, 
and  not  from  humanity. 

A  principal  fruit  of  friendship  is  the  ease  and  discharge  of 
the  fulness  and  swellings  of  the  heart,  which  passions  of  all 
kinds  do  cause  and  induce.  We  know  diseases  of  stoppings 
and  suflfocations  are  the  most  dangerous  in  the  body;  and 
it  is  not  much  otherwise  in  the  mind ;   you  may  take  sarza  to 

*  Aristotle,  "  Politics,"  i.  i.  sentence    of  a   comic  poet   quoted   by 

■  "  A  great  city,  a  great  solitude  "—a       Strabo,  xvi. 

21 


22  BACON 

open  the  liver,  steel  to  open  the  spleen,  flour  of  sulphur  for  the 
lungs,  castoreum  for  the  brain ;  but  no  receipt  openeth  the 
heart  but  a  true  friend,  to  whom  you  may  impart  griefs,  joys, 
fears,  hopes,  suspicions,  counsels,  and  whatsoever  lieth  upon 
the  heart,  to  oppress  it,  in  a  kind  of  civil  shrift  or  confession. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  to  observe  how  high  a  rate  great  kings 
and  monarchs  do  set  upon  this  fruit  of  friendship,  whereof  we 
speak ;  so  great,  as  they  purchase  it  many  times  at  the  hazard 
of  their  own  safety  and  greatness.  For  princes,  in  regard  of 
the  distance  of  their  fortune  from  that  of  their  subjects  and 
servants,  cannot  gather  this  fruit,  except,  to  make  themselves 
capable  thereof,  they  raise  some  persons  to  be,  as  it  were,  com- 
panions, and  almost  equals  to  themselves,  which  many  times 
sorteth  to  inconvenience.  The  modern  languages  give  unto 
such  persons  the  name  of  favorites  or  privadoes,  as  if  it  were 
matter  of  grace  or  conversation;  but  the  Roman  name  at- 
taineth  the  true  use  and  cause  thereof,  naming  them  "  participes 
curarum  ";  ^  for  it  is  that  which  tieth  the  knot.  And  we  see 
plainly,  that  this  hath  been  done,  not  by  weak  and  passionate 
princes  only,  but  by  the  wisest  and  most  politic  that  ever 
reigned,  who  have  oftentimes  joined  to  themselves  some  of 
their  servants,  whom  both  themselves  have  called  friends,  and 
allowed  others  likewise  to  call  them  in  the  same  manner,  using 
the  word  which  is  received  between  private  men. 

L.  Sylla,  when  he  commanded  Rome,  raised  Pompey,  after 
surnamed  the  Great,  to  that  height,  that  Pompey  vaunted 
himself  for  Sylla's  over-match.  For  when  he  had  carried  the 
consulship  for  a  friend  of  his  against  the  pursuit  of  Sylla,  and 
that  Sylla  did  a  little  resent  thereat,  and  began  to  speak  great, 
Pompey  turned  upon  him  again,  and  in  effect  bade  him  be 
quiet :  for  that  more  men  adored  the  sun  rising,  than  the  sun 
setting.  With  Julius  Caesar,  Decimus  Brutus  had  obtained 
that  interest,  as  he  set  him  down  in  his  testament  for  heir  in 
remainder  after  his  nephew.  And  this  was  the  man  that  had 
power  with  him  to  draw  him  forth  to  his  death.  For  when 
Caesar  would  have  discharged  the  Senate,  in  regard  of  some 
ill-presages,  and  especially  a  dream  of  Calpurnia,  this  man  lifted 
him  gently  by  the  arm  out  of  his  chair,  telling  him,  he  hoped 
he  would  not  dismiss  the  Senate  till  his  wife  had  dreamed  a 
'Tiberius  called  Sejanus  "  socium  la borum."— Tacitus,  "  Annalcs,"  ir.  a. 


OF   FRIENDSHIP 


23 


better  4ream.  And  it  seemeth,  his  favor  was  so  great,  as  An- 
tonius,  in  a  letter  which  is  recited  verbatim  in  one  of  Cicero's 
Philippics,*  calleth  him  "  venefica,"  witch ;  as  if  he  had  en- 
chanted Caesar.  Augustus  raised  Agrippa,  though  of  mean 
birth,  to  that  height,  as  when  he  consulted  with  Maecenas  about 
the  marriage  of  his  daughter  Julia,  Maecenas  took  the  liberty 
to  tell  him,  that  he  must  either  marry  his  daughter  to  Agrippa, 
or  take  away  his  life ;  there  was  no  third  way,  he  had  made  him 
so  great.  With  Tiberius  Caesar  Sejanus  had  ascended  to  that 
height,  as  they  two  were  termed  and  reckoned  as  a  pair  of 
friends.  Tiberius  in  a  letter  to  him  saith,  "  Hac  pro  mnicitia 
nostra  non  occultavi ":  ^  and  the  whole  Senate  dedicated  an 
altar  to  friendship  as  to  a  goddess,  in  respect  of  the  great  dear- 
ness  of  friendship  between  them  two.  The  like  or  more  was 
between  Septimus  Severus  and  Plantianus.  For  he  forced  his 
eldest  son  to  marry  the  daughter  of  Plantianus,  and  would 
often  maintain  Plantianus  in  doing  affronts  to  his  son :  and 
did  write  also  in  a  letter  to  the  Senate,  by  these  words :  "  I 
love  the  man  so  well,  as  I  wish  he  may  overlive  me." "  Now 
if  these  princes  had  been  as  a  Trajan,  or  a  Marcus  Aurelius, 
a  man  might  have  thought  that  this  had  proceeded  of  an 
abundant  goodness  of  nature ;  but  being  men  so  wise,  of  such 
strength  and  severity  of  mind,  and  so  extreme  lovers  of  them- 
selves, as  all  these  were,  it  proveth  most  plainly,  that  they 
found  their  own  feUcity,  though  as  great  as  ever  happened  to 
mortal  men,  but  as  a  half-piece,  except  they  might  have  a 
friend  to  make  it  entire;  and  yet,  which  is  more,  they  were 
princes  which  had  wives,  sons,  nephews;  and  yet  all  these 
could  not  supply  the  comfort  of  friendship. 

It  is  not  to  be  forgotten  what  Comminius  observeth  of  his 
first  master  Duke  Charles  the  Hardy,  namely,  that  he  would 
communicate  his  secrets  with  none;  and  least  of  all  those 
secrets  which  troubled  him  most.  Whereupon  he  goeth  on, 
and  saith,  that  towards  his  latter  time,  that  closeness  did  impair, 
and  a  little  perish,  his  understanding.'  Surely  Comminius 
might  have  made  the  same  judgment  also,  if  it  had  pleased 
him,  of  his  second  master  Louis  XI,  whose  closeness  was  in- 

*  Cicero,  "Philippics,"  xiii.   11.  'Dion   Cassius,   Ixxv.    15. 

* "  These   things  on   account   of  our  »  "  History  of  Philip  de  Commines,*^ 

friendship  I  have  not  concealed."— roc-  v.  5. 
Hus,  "  Annales,"  iv.  4a 


24  BACON 

deed  his  tormentor.  The  parable  of  Pythagoras  is  dark,  but 
true,  "  Cor  ne  cdito  "  ^ — "  Eat  not  the  heart."  Certainly,  if  a 
man  would  give  it  a  hard  phrase,  those  that  want  friends  to 
open  themselves  unto,  are  cannibals  of  their  own  hearts.  But 
one  thing  is  most  admirable,  wherewith  I  will  conclude  this 
first  fruit  of  friendship,  which  is,  that  this  communicating  of 
a  man's  self  to  his  friend  works  two  contrary  effects ;  for  it 
redoubleth  joys,  and  cutteth  griefs  in  halves.  For  there  is  no 
man  that  imparteth  his  joys  to  his  friends,  but  he  joyeth  the 
more ;  and  no  man  that  imparteth  his  griefs  to  his  friend,  but 
he  grieveth  the  less.  So  that  it  is  in  truth  of  operation  upon 
a  man's  mind  of  like  virtue,  as  the  alchemists  used  to  attribute 
to  their  stone,  for  man's  body;  that  it  worketh  all  contrary 
effects,  but  still  to  the  good  and  benefit  of  nature.  But  yet, 
without  praying  in  aid  of  alchemists,  there  is  a  manifest  image 
of  this  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  For  in  bodies,  union 
strengtheneth  and  cherisheth  any  natural  action ;  and,  on  the 
other  side,  weakeneth  and  dulleth  any  violent  impression ;  and 
even  so  it  is  of  minds. 

The  second  fruit  of  friendship  is  healthful  and  sovereign  for 
the  understanding,  as  the  first  is  for  the  affections.  For  friend- 
ship maketh  indeed  a  fair  day  in  the  affections,  from  storm 
and  tempests ;  but  it  maketh  daylight  in  the  understanding, 
out  of  darkness  and  confusion  of  thoughts :  neither  is  this  to 
be  understood  only  of  faithful  counsel,  which  a  man  receiveth 
from  his  friend ;  but  before  you  come  to  that,  certain  it  is,  that 
whosoever  hath  his  mind  fraught  with  many  thoughts,  his 
wits  and  understanding  do  clarify  and  break  up  in  the  com- 
municating and  discoursing  with  another :  he  tosseth  his 
thoughts  more  easily ;  he  marshalleth  them  more  orderly ;  he 
seeth  how  they  look  when  they  are  turned  into  words ;  finally, 
he  waxeth  wiser  than  himself;  and  that  more  by  an  hour's 
discourse,  than  by  a  day's  meditations.  It  was  well  said  by 
Themistocles  to  the  King  of  Persia,  that  speech  was  like  cloth 
of  Arras,  opened  and  put  abroad,  whereby  the  imagery  doth 
appear  in  figure ;  whereas  in  thoughts  they  lie  but  as  in  packs." 
Neither  is  this  second  fruit  of  friendship,  in  opening  the  un- 
derstanding, restrained  only  to  such  friends  as  are  able  to  give 
a  man  counsel :  they  indeed  are  best :  but  even,  without  that, 

•  Plutarch,  "  De  Educat.  Puer."  17.  •  Plutarch,  "  Vit.  Themist."  28. 


OF  FRIENDSHIP  25 

a  man  learneth  of  himself  and  bringeth  his  own  thoughts  to 
light,  and  whetteth  his  wits  as  against  a  stone,  which  itself 
cuts  not.  In  a  word,  a  man  were  better  relate  himself  to  a 
statue  or  picture,  than  to  suffer  his  thoughts  to  pass  in  smother. 
Add  now,  to  make  this  second  fruit  of  friendship  complete, 
that  other  point  which  lieth  more  open,  and  falleth  within 
vulgar  observation;  which  is  faithful  counsel  from  a  friend. 
Heraclitus  saith  well  in  one  of  his  enigmas,  "  Dry  Ught  is  ever 
the  best."  ^  And  certain  it  is,  that  the  light  that  a  man  re- 
ceiveth  by  counsel  from  another  is  drier  and  purer,  than  that 
which  cometh  from  his  own  understanding  and  judgment; 
which  is  ever  infused  and  drenched  in  his  affections  and  cus- 
toms. So  as  there  is  as  much  difference  between  the  counsel 
that  a  friend  giveth,  and  that  a  man  giveth  himself,  as  there 
is  between  the  counsel  of  a  friend  and  of  a  flatterer.  For  there 
is  no  such  flatterer  as  is  a  man's  self;  and  there  is  no  such 
remedy  against  flattery  of  a  man's  self,  as  the  liberty  of  a  friend. 
Counsel  is  of  two  sorts ;  the  one  concerning  manners,  the  other 
concerning  business.  For  the  first,  the  best  preservative  to 
keep  the  mind  in  health  is  the  faithful  admonition  of  a  friend. 
The  calling  a  man's  self  to  a  strict  account  is  a  medicine  some- 
times too  piercing  and  corrosive.  Reading  good  books  of 
morality  is  a  little  flat  and  dead.  Observing  our  faults  in 
others  is  sometimes  improper  for  our  case:  but  the  best  re- 
ceipt, best,  I  say,  to  work,  and  best  to  take,  is  the  admonition 
of  a  friend.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  behold  what  gross  errors 
and  extreme  absurdities  many,  especially  of  the  greater  sort, 
do  commit  for  want  of  a  friend  to  tell  them  of  them,  to  the 
great  damage  both  of  their  fame  and  fortune.  For  as  St. 
James  saith,  they  are  as  men  "  that  look  sometimes  into  a  glass, 
and  presently  forget  their  own  shape  and  favor."  As  for  busi- 
ness, a  man  may  think  if  he  will,  that  two  eyes  see  no  more 
than  one ;  or  that  a  gamester  seeth  always  more  than  a  looker- 
on  ;  or  that  a  man  in  anger  is  as  wise  as  he  that  hath  said  over 
the  four-and-twenty  letters ;  or  that  a  musket  may  be  shot  off 
as  well  upon  the  arm  as  upon  a  rest ;  and  such  other  fond  and 
high  imaginations,  to  think  himself  all  in  all.  But  when  all  is 
done,  the  help  of  good  counsel  is  that  which  setteth  business 
straight.  And  if  any  man  think  that  he  will  take  counsel,  but 
*A  saying  quoted  by  Galen. 


26  BACON 

it  shall  be  by  pieces;  asking  counsel  in  one  business  of  one 
man,  and  in  another  business  of  another  man ;  it  is  well,  that 
is  to  say,  better  perhaps  than  if  he  asked  none  at  all,  but  he 
runneth  two  dangers :  one,  that  he  shall  not  be  faithfully 
counselled ;  for  it  is  a  rare  thing,  except  it  be  from  a  perfect 
and  entire  friend,  to  have  counsel  given,  but  such  as  shall  be 
bowed  and  crooked  to  some  ends  which  he  hath  that  giveth 
it.  The  other,  that  he  shall  have  counsel  given,  hurtful  and 
unsafe,  though  with  good  meaning,  and  mixed  partly  of  mis- 
chief, and  partly  of  remedy :  even  as  if  you  would  call  a  physi- 
cian that  is  thought  good  for  the  cure  of  the  disease  you  com- 
plain of,  but  is  unacquainted  with  your  body;  and  therefore 
may  put  you  in  way  for  a  present  cure,  but  overthroweth 
your  health  in  some  other  kind,  and  so  cure  the  disease  and 
kill  the  patient.  But  a  friend  that  is  wholly  acquainted  with 
a  man's  estate,  will  beware  by  furthering  any  present  business 
how  he  dasheth  upon  other  inconvenience.  And  therefore 
rest  not  upon  scattered  counsels ;  they  will  rather  distract  and 
mislead,  than  settle  and  direct. 

After  these  two  noble  fruits  of  friendship,  peace  in  the  af- 
fections, and  support  of  the  judgment,  followeth  the  last  fruit, 
which  is  like  the  pomegranate,  full  of  many  kernels ;  I  mean 
aid,  and  bearing  a  part  in  all  actions  and  occasions.  Here  the 
best  way  to  represent  to  life  the  manifold  use  of  friendship,  is 
to  cast  and  see  how  many  things  there  are  which  a  man  cannot 
do  himself ;  and  then  it  will  appear  that  it  was  a  sparing  speech 
of  the  ancients  to  say,  that  "  a  friend  is  another  himself " ;  for 
that  a  friend  is  far  more  than  himself.  Men  have  their  time, 
and  die  many  times  in  desire  of  some  things  which  they  prin- 
cipally take  to  heart ;  the  bestowing  of  a  child,  the  finishing 
of  a  work,  or  the  like.  If  a  man  have  a  true  friend,  he  may 
rest  almost  secure,  that  the  care  of  those  things  will  continue 
after  him.  So  that  a  man  hath,  as  it  were,  two  lives  in  his 
desires.  A  man  hath  a  body,  and  that  body  is  confined  to  a 
place ;  but  where  friendship  is,  all  ofifices  of  life  are  as  it  were 
granted  to  him  and  his  deputy:  for  he  may  exercise  them  by 
his  friend.  How  many  things  are  there,  which  a  man  cannot 
with  any  face  or  comeliness,  say  or  do  himself?  A  man  can 
scarce  allege  his  own  merits  with  modesty,  much  less  extol 
them;   a  man  cannot  sometimes  brook  to  supplicate  or  beg; 


OF  FRIENDSHIP  27 

and  a  number  of  the  like.  But  all  these  things  are  graceful  in 
a  friend's  mouth,  which  are  blushing  in  a  man's  own.  So 
again,  a  man's  person  hath  many  proper  relations,  which  he 
cannot  put  off.  A  man  cannot  speak  to  his  son,  but  as  a 
father;  to  his  wife,  but  as  a  husband ;  to  his  enemy,  but  upon 
terms ;  whereas  a  friend  may  speak  as  the  case  requires,  and 
not  as  it  sorteth  with  the  person.  But  to  enumerate  these 
things  were  endless ;  I  have  given  a  rule,  where  a  man  cannot 
fitly  play  his  own  part;  if  he  have  not  a  friend,  he  may  quit 
the  stage. 


OF  YOUTH   AND  AGE 

A  MAN  that  is  young  in  years  may  be  old  in  hours,  if  he 
have  lost  no  time.  But  that  happeneth  rarely.  Gen- 
erally youth  is  like  the  first  cogitations,  not  so  wise  as 
the  second.  For  there  is  a  youth  in  thoughts,  as  well  as  in 
ages.  And  yet  the  invention  of  young  men  is  more  lively 
than  that  of  old;  and  imaginations  stream  into  their  minds 
better,  and  as  it  were  more  divinely.  Natures  that  have  much 
heat,  and  great  and  violent  desires  and  perturbations,  are  not 
ripe  for  action,  till  they  have  passed  the  meridian  of  their  years : 
as  it  was  with  Julius  Caesar  and  Septimius  Severus.  Of  the 
latter  of  whom  it  is  said,  "  Juventutem  egit  erroribiis,  into 
fiiroribits,  plenam."  ^  And  yet  he  was  the  ablest  emperor  al- 
most of  all  the  list.  But  reposed  natures  may  do  well  in  youth : 
as  it  is  seen  in  Augustus  Csesar,  Cosmos,  Duke  of  Florence, 
Gaston  de  Fois,  and  others.  On  the  other  side,  heat  and  vivac- 
ity in  age  are  an  excellent  composition  for  business.  Young 
men  are  fitter  to  invent  than  to  judge ;  fitter  for  execution  than 
for  counsel ;  and  fitter  for  new  projects  than  for  settled  busi- 
ness. For  the  experience  of  age,  in  things  that  fall  within  the 
compass  of  it,  directeth  them ;  but  in  new  things  abuseth  them. 
The  errors  of  young  men  are  the  ruin  of  business;  but  the 
errors  of  aged  men  amount  but  to  this,  that  more  might  have 
been  done,  or  sooner.  Young  men,  in  the  conduct  and  man- 
age of  actions,  embrace  more  than  they  can  hold ;  stir  more 
than  they  can  quiet ;  fly  to  the  end,  without  consideration  of  the 
means  and  degrees ;  pursue  some  few  principles,  which  they 
have  chanced  upon,  absurdly;  care  not  to  innovate,  which 
draws  unknown  inconveniences ;  use  extreme  remedies  at 
first ;  and,  that  which  doubleth  all  errors,  will  not  acknowledge 
or  retract  them :  like  an  unready  horse,  that  will  neither  stop 
nor  turn.     Men  of  age  object  too  much,  consult  too  long,  ad- 

*  "  His  youth  was  full  of  errors,  yea,    of     evil     passions."  —  Spartian,      "  Vit. 
Sev." 

29 


30 


BACON 


venture  too  little,  repent  too  soon,  and  seldom  drive  business 
home  to  the  full  period;  but  content  themselves  with  the 
mediocrity  of  success.  Certainly  it  is  good  to  compound  em- 
ployments of  both ;  for  that  will  be  good  for  the  present,  be- 
cause the  virtues  of  either  age  may  correct  the  defects  of  both : 
and  good  for  succession,  that  young  men  may  be  learners,  while 
men  in  age  are  actors :  and  lastly,  good  for  extern  accidents, 
because  authority  followeth  old  men,  and  favor  and  popu- 
larity youth.  But  for  the  moral  part,  perhaps  youth  will  have 
the  pre-eminence,  as  age  hath  for  the  politic.  A  certain  rab- 
bin -  upon  the  text  "  Your  young  men  shall  see  visions,  and 
your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams,"  inferreth  that  young  men 
are  admitted  nearer  to  God  than  old,  because  vision  is  a  clearer 
revelation  than  a  dream.  And  certainly  the  more  a  man  drink- 
eth  of  the  world,  the  more  it  intoxicateth ;  and  age  doth  profit 
rather  in  the  powers  of  understanding,  than  in  the  virtues  of 
the  will  and  affections.  There  be  some  have  an  over-early 
ripeness  in  their  years,  which  fadeth  betimes :  these  are  first, 
such  as  have  brittle  wits,  the  edge  whereof  is  soon  turned ;  such 
as  was  Hermogenes  the  rhetorician,  whose  books  are  exceed- 
ing subtle,  who  afterwards  waxed  stupid.  A  second  sort  is 
of  those  that  have  some  natural  dispositions,  which  have  bet- 
ter grace  in  youth  than  in  age :  such  as  is  a  fluent  and  luxuriant 
speech;  which  becomes  youth  well,  but  not  age.  So  Tully 
saith  of  Hortensius,  "  Idem  manebat,  neque  idem  decebat."  * 
The  third  is,  of  such  as  take  too  high  a  strain  at  the  first,  and 
are  magnanimous,  more  than  tract  of  years  can  uphold.  As 
was  Scipio  Africanus,  of  whom  Livy  saith  in  effect,  "  Ultima 
prihiis  cedebant."  * 

*  Abrabanel,  in  his  "  Commentary  on       same    things    no   longer  became   him." 
Joel."  — Cicero,    "  Brut."  05. 

*  "  He   remained   the   same;   but   the         ♦"The  latter  end  was  worse  than  the 

beginning." — Livy,   xxxviii.   53. 


PERTURBATION    OF    THE    MIND 
RECTIFIED 


BY 


ROBERT    BURTON 


ROBERT   BURTON 
1576—1640 

Robert  Burton  was  an  English  divine,  a  native  of  Lindley  in  Leices- 
tershire. He  studied  at  Oxford  University,  and  became  rector  of 
Segrave.  Born  in  1576,  he  died  in  1640.  His  claim  to  rank  as  an 
essayist  rests  on  that  wonderful  book,  the  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy," 
written  by  way  of  alleviating  his  own  melancholy.  With  Dr.  Johnson 
this  volume  was  a  great  favorite,  so  much  so  that  he  would  turn  earlier 
out  of  bed  to  read  it.  Two  chapters,  which  give  a  fair  idea  of  the 
style  of  the  book,  are  given  in  a  detached  essay  form.  The  "  Anatomy 
of  Melancholy  "  is  in  fact,  though  not  in  name,  a  collection  of  essays 
about  everything  that  ever  entered  the  author's  far-ranging  and  richly 
furnished  mind. 

Burton  was  a  good  mathematician  and  classical  scholar,  an  omnivor- 
ous reader,  and  a  merry  companion.  His  book,  written,  he  says,  by 
way  of  alleviation  to  his  own  melancholy,  is  an  immense  compilation 
of  quotations  on  all  manner  of  topics  from  an  infinite  variety  of  sources, 
familiar  and  out  of  the  common  track.  It  is  described  by  Archbishop 
Herring  as  "  the  pleasantest,  the  most  learned,  and  the  most  full  of 
sterling  sense."  The  archbishop  adds  that  the  wits  of  the  reigns  of 
Anne  and  the  first  George  were  deeply  indebted  to  Burton ;  and  we 
may  venture  to  say  that  the  "  wits "  of  the  succeeding  reigns  have 
been  no  less  so. 


32 


PERTURBATION  OF  THE  MIND   RECTIFIED 

WHOSOEVER  he  is  that  shall  hope  to  cure  this  malady 
in  himself  or  any  other,  must  first  rectify  these  pas- 
sions and  perturbations  of  the  mind :  the  chiefest  cure 
consists  in  them.  A  quiet  mind  is  that  voluptas  or  summtim 
bonum  of  Epicurus ;  non  dolere,  ciiris  vacare,  animo  tranquillo 
esse,  not  to  grieve,  but  to  want  cares,  and  to  have  a  quiet  soul, 
is  the  only  pleasure  in  the  world,  as  Seneca  truly  recites  his 
opinion,  not  that  of  eating  and  drinking,  which  injurious  Aris- 
totle maliciously  puts  upon  him,  and  for  which  he  is  still  mis- 
taken, male  audit  et  vapiilat,  slandered  without  a  cause,  and 
lashed  by  all  posterity.  "  Fear  and  sorrow,  therefore,  are  es- 
pecially to  be  avoided,  and  the  mind  to  be  mitigated  with  mirth, 
constancy,  good  hope;  vain  terror,  bad  objects  are  to  be  re- 
moved, and  all  such  persons  in  whose  companies  they  be  not 
well  pleased."  Gualter  Bruel,  Fernelius,  consil.  43  ;  Mercurialis, 
consil.  6;  Piso  Jacchinus,  cap.  15,  in  9.  Rhasis,  Capivaccius, 
Hildesheim,  etc.,  all  inculcate  this  as  an  especial  means  of  their 
cure,  that  their  "  minds  be  quietly  pacified,  vain  conceits  di- 
verted, if  it  be  possible,  with  terrors,  cares,  fixed  studies,  cogi- 
tations, and  whatsoever  it  is  that  shall  any  way  molest  or  trouble 
the  soul,"  because  that  otherwise  there  is  no  good  to  be  done. 
"  The  body's  mischiefs,"  as  Plato  proves,  "  proceed  from  the 
soul ;  and  if  the  miiid  be  not  first  satisfied,  the  body  can  never 
be  cured."  Alcibiades  raves  (saith  Maximus  Tyrius)  and  is 
sick,  his  furious  desires  carry  him  from  Lyceus  to  the  pleading- 
place,  thence  to  the  sea,  so  into  Sicily,  thence  to  Lacedsemon, 
thence  to  Persia,  thence  to  Samos,  then  again  to  Athens  ;  Critias 
tyrannizeth  over  all  the  city ;  Sardanapalus  is  love-sick ;  these 
men  are  ill-affected  all,  and  can  never  be  cured  till  their  minds 
be  otherwise  qualified.  Crato,  therefore,  in  that  often-cited 
counsel  of  his  for  a  nobleman  his  patient,  when  he  had  suf- 
ficiently informed  him  in  diet,  air,  exercise,  Venus,  sleep,  con- 

33 


34 


BURTON 


eludes  with  these  as  matters  of  greatest  moment,  Quod  reliquum 
est,  animce  (accidentia  corrigantur,  from  which  alone  proceeds 
melancholy;  they  are  the  fountain,  the  subject,  the  hinges 
whereon  it  turns,  and  must  necessarily  be  reformed.  "  For 
anger  stirs  choler,  heats  the  blood  and  vital  spirits ;  sorrow  on 
the  other  side  refrigerates  the  body,  and  extinguisheth  natural 
heat,  overthrows  appetite,  hinders  concoction,  dries  up  the  tem- 
perature, and  perverts  the  understanding :  "  fear  dissolves  the 
spirits,  infects  the  heart,  attenuates  the  soul:  and  for  these 
causes  all  passions  and  perturbations  must,  to  the  utmost  of  our 
power  and  most  seriously,  be  removed,  ^lianus  Montaltus 
attributes  so  much  to  them,  "  that  he  holds  the  rectification  of 
them  alone  to  be  sufficient  to  the  cure  of  melancholy  in  most 
patients."  Many  are  fully  cured  when  they  have  seen  or  heard, 
etc.,  enjoy  their  desires,  or  be  secured  and  satisfied  in  their 
minds;  Galen,  the  common  master  of  them  all,  from  whose 
fountain  they  fetch  water,  brags,  lib.  i,  de  san.  tuend.,  that  he, 
for  his  part,  hath  cured  divers  of  this  infirmity,  solum  animis 
ad  rectum  institutis,  by  right  settling  alone  of  their  minds. 

Yea,  but  you  will  here  infer  that  this  is  excellent  good  in- 
deed if  it  could  be  done ;  but  how  shall  it  be  effected,  by  whom, 
what  art,  what  means  ?  hie  labor,  hoc  opus  est.  It  is  a  natural 
infirmity,  a  most  powerful  adversary;  all  men  are  subject  to 
passions,  and  melancholy  above  all  others,  as  being  distem- 
pered by  their  innate  humors,  abundance  of  choler  adust,  weak- 
ness of  parts,  outward  occurrences;  and  how  shall  they  be 
avoided?  the  wisest  men,  greatest  philosophers  of  most  excel- 
lent wit,  reason,  judgment,  divine  spirits,  cannot  moderate 
themselves  in  this  behalf ;  such  as  are  sound  in  body  and  mind. 
Stoics,  heroes.  Homer's  gods,  all  are  passionate,  and  furiously 
carried  sometimes ;  and  how  shall  we  that  are  already  crazed, 
fracti  animis,  sick  in  body,  sick  in  mind,  resist?  we  cannot  per- 
form it.  You  may  advise  and  give  good  precepts,  as  who  can- 
not? But  how  shall  they  be  put  in  practice?  I  may  not  deny 
but  our  passions  are  violent,  and  tyrannize  of  us,  yet  there  be 
means  to  curb  them ;  though  they  be  headstrong,  they  may 
be  tamed,  they  may  be  qualified,  if  he  himself  or  his  friends  will 
but  use  their  honest  endeavors,  or  make  use  of  such  ordinary 
helps  as  are  commonly  prescribed. 

He  himself  (I  say) ;   from  the  patient  himself  the  first  and 


PERTURBATION  OF  THE  MIND  RECTIFIED  35 

chiefest  remedy  must  be  had ;  for  if  he  be  averse,  peevish,  wasp- 
ish, give  way  wholly  to  his  passions,  will  not  seek  to  be  helped, 
or  be  ruled  by  his  friends,  how  is  it  possible  he  should  be  cured  ? 
But  if  he  be  willing,  at  least,  gentle,  tractable,  and  desire  his 
own  good,  no  doubt  but  he  may  magnam  morbi  deponere  partem, 
be  eased  at  least,  if  not  cured.  He  himself  must  do  his  utmost 
endeavor  to  resist  and  withstand  the  beginnings.  Principiis 
obsta,  "  Give  not  water  passage,  no  not  a  little  "  (Ecclus.  xxv. 
2y).  If  they  open  a  little,  they  will  make  a  greater  breach  at 
length.  Whatsoever  it  is  that  runneth  in  his  mind,  vain  conceit 
be  it  pleasing  or  displeasing,  which  so  much  affects  or  troubleth 
him,  "  by  all  possible  means  he  must  withstand  it,  expel  those 
vain,  false,  frivolous  imaginations,  absurd  conceits,  feigned 
fears  and  sorrows ;  from  which,"  saith  Piso,  "  this  disease 
primarily  proceeds,  and  takes  his  first  occasion  or  beginning, 
by  doing  something  or  other  that  shall  be  opposite  unto  them, 
thinking  of  something  else,  persuading  by  reason,  or  howso- 
ever to  make  a  sudden  alteration  of  them."  Though  he  have 
hitherto  run  in  a  full  career,  and  precipitated  himself,  follow- 
ing his  passions,  giving  reins  to  his  appetite,  let  him  now  stop 
upon  a  sudden,  curb  himself  in;  and  as  Lemnius  adviseth, 
**  strive  against  with  all  his  power,  to  the  utmost  of  his  endeavor, 
and  not  cherish  those  fond  imaginations,  which  so  covertly  creep 
into  his  mind,  most  pleasing  and  amiable  at  first,  but  bitter  as 
gall  at  last,  and  so  headstrong,  that  by  no  reason,^  art,  counsel, 
or  persuasion,  they  may  be  shaken  off."  Though  he  be  far 
gone,  and  habituated  unto  such  fantastical  imaginations,  yet 
as  Tully  and  Plutarch  advise,  let  him  oppose,  fortify,  or  pre- 
pare himself  against  them,  by  premeditation,  reason,  or  as  we 
do  by  a  crooked  staff,  bend  himself  another  way. 

*'  7«  tamen  interea  effugito  qtic2  iristia  tnenfem 
Solicitant,  procul  esse  jube  curasque  metnmque 
Pallentetn ,  ultrices  iras,  sint  omnia  la*aP 

**  In  the  mean  time  expel  them  from  my  mind, 
Pale  fears,  sad  cares,  and  griefs  which  do  it  grind 
Revengeful  anger,  pain  and  discontent. 
Let  all  thy  soul  be  set  on  merriment.  '* 

Curas  tolles  graves,  irasci  crede  profanum.     If  it  be  idle- 
ness hath  caused  this  infirmity,  or  that  he  perceive  himself 


30  BURTON 

given  to  solitariness,  to  walk  alone,  and  please  himself  with 
fond  imagination,  let  him  by  all  means  avoid  it ;  it  is  a  bosom 
enemy,  it  is  delightful  melancholy,  a  friend  in  show,  but  a  secret 
devil,  a  sweet  poison,  it  will  in  the  end  be  his  undoing ;  let  him 
go  presently,  task  or  set  himself  a  work,  get  some  good  com- 
pany. If  he  proceed,  as  a  gnat  flies  about  a  candle  so  long  till 
at  length  he  burn  his  body,  so  in  the  end  he  will  undo  himself ; 
if  it  be  any  harsh  object,  ill  company,  let  him  presently  go  from 
it.  If  by  his  own  default,  through  ill  diet,  bad  air,  want  of  ex- 
ercise, etc.,  let  him  now  begin  to  reform  himself.  "  It  would  be 
a  perfect  remedy  against  all  corruption,  if,"  as  Roger  Bacon 
hath  it,  "  we  could  but  moderate  ourselves  in  those  six  non-nat- 
ural things."  "If  it  be  any  disgrace,  abuse,  temporal  loss, 
calumny,  death  of  friends,  imprisonment,  banishment,  be  not 
troubled  with  it,  do  not  fear,  be  not  angry,  grieve  not  at  it,  but 
with  all  courage  sustain  it  "  (Gordonius,  lib.  r,  c.  15^  de  conser, 
vit.).  Tu  contra  andentior  ito.  If  it  be  sickness,  ill  success,  or 
any  adversity  that  hath  caused  it,  oppose  an  invincible  courage, 
"  fortify  thyself  by  God's  Word  or  otherwise,"  mala  bonis  per- 
suadenda,  set  prosperity  against  adversity,  as  we  refresh  our 
eyes  by  seeing  some  pleasant  meadow,  fountain,  picture,  or  the 
like;  recreate  thy  mind  by  some  contrary  object,  with  some 
more  pleasing  meditation  divert  thy  thoughts. 

Yea,  but  thou  infer  again,  facile  consilium  damns  aliis,  we 
can  easily  give  counsel  to  others ;  every  man,  as  the  saying  is, 
can  tame  a  shrew,  but  he  that  hath  her;  si  hie  esses,  aliter 
sentires;  if  you  were  in  our  misery,  you  would  find  it  other- 
wise; it  is  not  easily  performed.  We  know  this  to  be  true; 
we  should  moderate  ourselves;  but  we  are  furiously  carried; 
we  cannot  make  use  of  such  precepts;  we  are  overcome,  sick, 
male  sani,  distempered,  and  habituated  to  these  courses ;  we 
can  make  no  resistance ;  you  may  as  well  bid  him  that  is  dis- 
eased, not  to  feci  pain,  as  a  melancholy  man  not  to  fear,  not  to 
be  sad :  it  is  within  his  blood,  his  brains,  his  whole  temperature : 
it  cannot  be  removed.  But  he  may  choose  whether  he  will  give 
way  too  far  unto  it ;  he  may  in  some  sort  correct  himself.  A 
philosopher  was  bitten  with  a  mad  dog ;  and,  as  the  nature  of 
that  disease  is  to  abhor  all  waters,  and  liquid  things,  and  to 
think  still  they  see  the  picture  of  a  dog  before  them,  he  went,  for 
all  this,  reluctant e  se,  to  the  bath,  and  seeing  there  (as  he 


PERTURBATION  OF  THE  MIND   RECTIFIED  37 

thought)  in  the  water  the  picture  of  a  dog,  with  reason  over- 
came this  conceit:  quid  cani  cum  balneo? — what  should  a  dog 
do  in  a  bath  ?  a  mere  conceit.  Thou  thinkest  thou  hearest  and 
seest  devils,  black  men,  etc.,  it  is  not  so ;  it  is  thy  corrupt  fan- 
tasy ;  settle  thine  imagination ;  thou  art  well.  Thou  thinkest 
thou  hast  a  great  nose,  thou  art  sick,  every  man  observes  thee, 
laughs  thee  to  scorn;  persuade  thyself  it  is  no  such  matter: 
this  is  fear  only,  and  vain  suspicion.  Thou  art  discontent,  thou 
art  sad  and  heavy,  but  why?  upon  what  ground?  consider  of 
it:  thou  art  jealous,  timorous,  suspicious;  for  what  cause? 
examine  it  thoroughly ;  thou  shalt  find  none  at  all,  or  such  as 
is  to  be  contemned,  such  as  thou  wilt  surely  deride,  and  contemn 
in  thyself,  when  it  is  past.  Rule  thyself  then  with  reason ;  sat- 
isfy thyself;  accustom  thyself;  wean  thyself  from  such  fond 
conceits,  vain  fears,  strong  imaginations,  restless  thoughts. 
Thou  mayest  do  it ;  Est  in  nobis  assuescere  (as  Plutarch  saith) : 
we  may  frame  ourselves  as  we  will.  As  he  that  useth  an  up- 
right shoe,  may  correct  the  obliquity  or  crookedness  by  wear- 
ing it  on  the  other  side ;  we  may  overcome  passions  if  we  will. 
Quicquid  sibi  imperavit  animus,  obtinuit  (as  Seneca  saith) 
nulli  tarn  ferti  aifectus,  tit  non  disciplina  perdomentur:  what- 
soever the  will  desires,  she  may  command :  no  such  cruel  affec- 
tions, but  by  discipline  they  may  be  tamed.  Voluntarily  thou 
wilt  not  do  this  or  that,  which  thou  oughtest  to  do,  or  refrain, 
etc.,  but  when  thou  art  lashed  like  a  dull  jade,  thou  wilt  reform 
it ;  fear  of  a  whip  will  make  thee  do  or  not  do.  Do  that  volun- 
tarily then  what  thou  canst  do,  and  must  do  by  compulsion ;  thou 
mayest  refrain  if  thou  wilt,  and  master  thine  affections.  "  As, 
in  a  city,"  saith  Melanchthon,  "  they  do  by  stubborn  rebellious 
rogues,  that  will  not  submit  themselves  to  political  judgment, 
compel  them  by  force ;  so  must  we  do  by  our  affections.  If  the 
heart  will  not  lay  aside  those  vicious  motions,  and  the  fantasy 
those  fond  imaginations,  we  have  another  form  of  government 
to  enforce  and  refrain  our  outward  members,  that  they  be  not 
led  by  our  passions.  If  appetite  will  not  obey,  let  the  moving 
faculty  overrule  her ;  let  her  resist  and  compel  her  to  do  other- 
wise." In  an  ague,  the  appetite  would  drink;  sore  eyes  that 
itch  would  be  rubbed ;  but  reason  saith  no ;  and  therefore  the 
moving  faculty  will  not  do  it.  Our  fantasy  would  intrude  a 
thousand  fears,  suspicious  chimeras  upon  us;   but  we  have 


38  BURTON 

reason  to  resist;  yet  we  let  it  be  overborne  by  our  appetite. 
"  Imagination  enforceth  spirits,  which  by  an  admirable  league 
of  nature  compel  the  nerves  to  obey,  and  they  our  several 
limbs :  "  we  give  too  much  way  to  our  passions.  And  as,  to 
him  that  is  sick  of  an  ague,  all  things  are  distasteful  and  un- 
pleasant, non  ex  cibi  vitio,  saith  Plutarch,  not  in  the  meat,  but 
in  our  taste :  so  many  things  are  offensive  to  us,  not  of  them- 
selves, but  out  of  our  corrupt  judgment,  jealousy,  suspicion, 
and  the  like ;  we  pull  these  mischiefs  upon  our  own  heads. 

If  then  our  judgment  be  so  depraved,  our  reason  overruled, 
will  precipitated,  that  we  cannot  seek  our  own  good,  or  mod- 
erate ourselves,  as  in  this  disease  commonly  it  is,  the  best  way 
for  ease  is  to  impart  our  misery  to  some  friend,  not  to  smother 
it  up  in  our  own  breast ;  alitur  vitiuni  crescitqtie,  tegendo,  etc., 
and  that  which  was  most  offensive  to  us,  a  cause  of  fear  and 
grief,  quod  nunc  te  coquit,  another  hell ;  for  strangulat  inclusus 
dolor,  atque  exastuat  intiis — grief  concealed  strangles  the  soul ; 
but  when  as  we  shall  but  impart  it  to  some  discreet,  trusty,  lov- 
ing friend,  it  is  instantly  removed  by  his  counsel  happily,  wis- 
dom, persuasion,  advice,  his  good  means,  which  we  could  not 
otherwise  apply  unto  ourselves.  A  friend's  counsel  is  a  charm ; 
like  mandrake  wine,  curas  sopit;  and  as  a  bull  that  is  tied  to  a 
lig-tree  becomes  gentle  on  a  sudden  (which  some,  saith  Plu- 
tarch, interpret  of  good  words),  so  is  a  savage,  obdurate  heart 
mollified  by  fair  speeches,  "  All  adversity  finds  ease  in  com- 
plaining," as  Isidore  holds,  "  and  it  is  a  solace  to  relate  it " 
*A<ya6f}  Se  7rapai(f)a(n<;  ia-rtv  eralpov.  Friends'  confabulations 
are  comfortable  at  all  times,  as  fire  in  winter,  shade  in  summer ; 
quale  sopor  fessis  in  gramine,  meat  and  drink  to  him  that  is 
hungry  or  athirst.  Democritus's  collyrium  is  not  so  sovereign 
to  the  eyes,  as  this  is  to  the  heart ;  good  words  are  cheerful  and 
powerful  of  themselves,  but  much  more  from  friends,  as  so 
many  props,  mutually  sustaining  each  other,  like  ivy  and  a  wall, 
which  Camerarius  hath  well  illustrated  in  an  emblem.  Lenit 
animuni  simplex  ncl  scppe  narratio,  the  simple  narration  many 
times  easeth  our  distressed  mind ;  and  in  the  midst  of  greatest 
extremities,  so  divers  have  been  relieved,  by  exonerating  them- 
selves to  a  faithful  friend  ;  he  sees  that  which  we  cannot  see  for 
passion  and  discontent :  he  pacifies  our  minds ;  he  will  ease  our 
pain,  assuage  our  anger;  Quanta  inde  voluptas,  quanta  securi' 


PERTURBATION   OF   THE  MIND   RECTIFIED  39 

ias,  Chrysostom  adds:  what  pleasure!  what  security  by  that 
means !  "  Nothing  so  available,  or  that  so  much  refresheth  the 
soul  of  man."  Tully,  as  I  remember,  in  an  epistle  to  his  dear 
friend  Atticus,  much  condoles  the  defect  of  such  a  friend.  "  I 
live  here,"  saith  he,  "  in  a  great  city,  where  I  have  a  multitude 
of  acquaintance,  but  not  a  man  of  all  that  company,  with  whom 
I  dare  familiarly  breathe,  or  freely  jest.  Wherefore  I  expect 
thee,  I  desire  thee,  I  send  for  thee ;  for  there  be  many  things 
which  trouble  and  molest  me,  which,  had  I  but  thee  in  presence, 
I  could  quickly  disburden  myself  of  in  a  walking  discourse." 
The  like  peradventure  may  he  and  he  say  with  that  old  man  in 
the  comedy : 

**  Nemo  est  meorum  amicorum  kodie^ 
Apud  guem  expromere  occulta  mea  audeant  j  " 

and  much  inconvenience  may  both  he  and  he  suffer  in  the  mean- 
time by  it.  He  or  he,  or  whosoever  then  labors  of  this  malady, 
by  all  means  let  him  get  some  trusty  friend,  Semper  habens 
Pylademque  aliquem,  cui  curet  Oresten,  a  Pylades,  to  whom 
freely  and  securely  he  may  open  himself.  For,  as  in  all  other 
occurrences,  so  it  is  in  this,  si  quis  in  ccelum  ascendisset,  etc., 
as  he  said  in  Tully,  if  a  man  had  gone  to  heaven,  "  seen  the 
beauty  of  the  skies,"  stars  errant,  fixed,  etc.,  insuavis  erit  ad- 
miratio,  it  will  do  him  no  pleasure,  except  he  have  somebody 
to  impart  to  what  he  hath  seen.  It  is  the  best  thing  in  the 
world,  as  Seneca  therefore  adviseth  in  such  a  case,  "  to  get  a 
trusty  friend,  to  whom  we  may  freely  and  sincerely  pour  out 
our  secrets.  Nothing  so  delighteth  and  easeth  the  mind,  as 
when  we  have  a  prepared  bosom,  to  which  our  secrets  may  de- 
scend, of  whose  conscience  we  are  assured  as  our  own,  whose 
speech  may  ease  our  succorless  estate,  counsel  relieve,  mirth 
expel  our  mourning,  and  whose  very  sight  may  be  acceptable 
unto  us."  It  was  the  counsel  which  that  politic  Commines 
gave  to  all  princes,  and  others  distressed  in  mind,  by  occasion 
of  Charles,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  that  was  much  perplexed,  "  first 
to  pray  to  God,  and  lay  himself  open  to  Him,  and  then  to  some 
special  friend,  whom  we  hold  most  dear,  to  tell  all  our  griev- 
ances to  him.  Nothing  so  forcible  to  strengthen,  recreate,  and 
heal  the  wounded  soul  of  a  miserable  man." 


OF    TOLERATIO 


OF    PROVIDENCE 


BY 


SIR    THOMAS    BROWN 


3— Vol,  5< 


SIR  THOMAS   BROWNE 

1605—1682 

Thomas  Browne  was  born  in  St.  Michael's,  Cheapside,  in  the  year 
1605.  He  was  sent  to  Winchester  School,  and  studied  and  graduated 
in  arts  at  Oxford.  Afterwards  he  practised  medicine  in  the  counties 
surrounding  the  university.  He  travelled  in  Ireland,  France,  and  Italy, 
and  returning  through  Holland,  took  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Medicine 
at  Leyden.  In  1636  he  settled  in  Norwich,  where  he  lived  for  forty- 
six  years  practising  his  profession  extensively.  In  1637  he  was  in- 
corporated M.D.  at  Oxford.  He  was  married  in  1641 ;  his  wife  sur- 
vived him.  In  1664  he  was  chosen  an  Honorary  Fellow  of  the  College 
of  Physicians,  and  received  the  honor  of  knighthood  from  Charles  II 
on  the  occasion  of  his  paying  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Norwich  in  1671. 
He  died  at  Norwich  in  1682  at  the  mature  age  of  seventy-seven. 

His  writings  are  numerous,  and  generally  desultory.  The  most  re- 
markable and  the  best  known  are  a  work  on  the  religion  of  a  physician, 
"  Religio  Medici,"  and  a  treatise  on  vulgar  or  common  errors,  "  Pseu- 
dodoxia  Epidemica."  The  "  Religio  Medici "  was  written  shortly  after 
his  return  from  travel,  and  during  a  residence  of  two  or  three  years  at 
Halifax,  and  was  published  soon  after  he  went  to  reside  at  Norwich. 
The  work  excited  immediate  attention  by  the  liberality  of  sentiment 
and  the  freedom  from  prejudice  which  marked  it,  as  well  as  by  its 
novel  paradoxes,  subtle  disquisitions,  strength  of  language,  and  dignity 
of  style.  Sir  Kenelm  Digby  produced  a  volume  of  acute  comment 
and  mixed  censure  and  speculation,  which  gave  the  work  further  im- 
portance. "  Pseudodoxia "  appeared  ^  ten  years  later,  and  passed 
through  six  editions  in  the  lifetime  of  its  author;  it  is  noteworthy  as 
much  for  the  strangeness  of  the  errors  as  for  the  quaintness  of  the 
refutations.  In  1658  the  discovery  of  some  ancient  urns  in  Norfolk 
gave  rise  to  his  treatise  on  urn  burial,  "  Hydriotaphia  " — a  work  full 
of  antiquarian  learning. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne's  style  is  flowing,  rich  with  illustrations,  and 
here  and  there  poetical.  It  is  marred  by  a  want  of  uniformity.  The 
reader  is  surprised  by  eccentric  changes  from  polished  thoughts  to 
the  most  uncouth  ideas.  Coleridge  has  characterized  Browne  as  "  rich 
in  various  knowledge,  exuberant  in  conceptions  and  conceits,  con- 
templative, imaginative,  often  truly  great  in  his  style  and  diction, 
though  doubtless  too  often  big,  stiff,  and  hyperlatinistic.  In  him  the 
humorist  constantly  mingles  with  the  philosopher."  The  two  essays, 
"  Of  Toleration,"  and  "  Of  Providence,"  are  excellent  examples  of  his 
stjrle. 


«a 


OF  TOLERATION 

I  COULD  never  divide  myself  from  any  man  upon  the 
difference  of  an  opinion,  or  be  angry  with  his  judgment 
for  not  agreeing  with  me  in  that  from  which,  perhaps, 
within  a  few  days,  I  should  dissent  myself.  I  have  no  genius 
to  disputes  in  religion:  and  have  often  thought  it  wisdom  to 
decline  them,  especially  upon  a  disadvantage,  or  when  the  cause 
of  truth  might  suffer  in  the  weakness  of  my  patronage.  Where 
we  desire  to  be  informed,  it  is  good  to  contest  with  men  above 
ourselves;  but,  to  confirm  and  establish  our  opinions,  it  is 
best  to  argue  with  judgments  below  our  own,  that  the  frequent 
spoils  and  victories  over  their  reasons  may  settle  in  ourselves 
an  esteem  and  confirmed  opinion  of  our  own.  Every  man  is 
not  a  proper  champion  for  truth,  nor  fit  to  take  up  the  gauntlet 
in  the  cause  of  verity;  many,  from  the  ignorance  of  these 
maxims,  and  an  inconsiderate  zeal  unto  truth,  have  too  rashly 
charged  the  troops  of  error,  and  remain  as  trophies  unto  the 
enemies  of  truth.  A  man  may  be  in  as  just  possession  of  truth 
as  of  a  city,  and  yet  be  forced  to  surrender;  it  is  therefore 
far  better  to  enjoy  her  with  peace  than  to  hazard  her  on  a 
battle.  If,  therefore,  there  rise  any  doubts  in  my  way,  I  do 
forget  them,  or  at  least  defer  them,  till  my  better  settled  judg- 
ment and  more  manly  reason  be  able  to  resolve  them;  for  I 
perceive  every  man's  own  reason  is  his  best  CEdipus,  and  will, 
upon  a  reasonable  truce,  find  a  way  to  loose  those  bonds  where- 
with the  subtleties  of  error  have  enchained  our  more  flexible 
and  tender  judgments.  In  philosophy,  where  truth  seems 
double-faced,  there  is  no  man  more  paradoxical  than  myself: 
but  in  divinity  I  love  to  keep  the  road ;  and,  though  not  in  an 
implicit,  yet  a  humble  faith,  follow  the  great  wheel  of  the 
Church,  by  which  I  move ;  not  reserving  any  proper  poles,  or 
motion  from  the  epicycle  of  my  own  brain.  By  this  means  I 
have  no  gap  for  heresy,  schisms,  or  errors,  of  which  at  present, 

43 


44  BROWNE 

I  hope  I  shall  not  injure  truth  to  say,  I  have  no  taint  or  tincture. 
I  must  confess  my  greener  studies  have  been  polluted  with 
two  or  three;  not  any  begotten  in  the  latter  centuries,  but 
old  and  obsolete,  such  as  could  never  have  been  revived  but 
by  such  extravagant  and  irregular  heads  as  mine.  For,  in- 
deed, heresies  perish  not  with  their  authors ;  but,  like  the  river 
Arethusa,  though  they  lose  their  currents  in  one  place,  they 
rise  up  again  in  another.  One  general  council  is  not  able  to 
extirpate  one  single  heresy:  it  may  be  cancelled  for  the  pres- 
ent; but  revolution  of  time,  and  the  like  aspects  from  heaven, 
will  restore  it,  when  it  will  flourish  till  it  be  condemned  again. 
For,  as  though  there  were  metempsychosis,  and  the  soul  of 
one  man  passed  into  another,  opinions  do  find,  after  certain 
revolutions,  men  and  minds  like  those  that  first  begat  them. 
To  see  ourselves  again,  we  need  not  look  for  Plato's  year :  * 
every  man  is  not  only  himself ;  there  have  been  many  Diogenes, 
and  as  many  Timons,  though  but  few  of  that  name ;  men  are 
lived  over  again;  the  world  is  now  as  it  was  in  ages  past; 
there  was  none  then,  but  there  hath  been  someone  since,  that 
parallels  him,  and  is,  as  it  were,  his  revived  self. 

^  A    revolution    of    certain    thousand  years,   when  all  things   should  retura 
unto  their  former  estate. 


OF  PROVIDENCE 

THIS  is  the  ordinary  and  open  way  of  His  providence, 
which  art  and  industry  have  in  good  part  discovered; 
whose  effects  we  may  foretell  without  an  oracle.  To 
foreshow  these  is  not  prophecy,  but  prognostication.  There 
is  another  way,  full  of  meanders  and  labyrinths,  whereof  the 
devil  and  spirits  have  no  exact  ephemerides:  and  that  is  a 
more  particular  and  obscure  method  of  His  providence ;  direct- 
ing the  operations  of  individual  and  single  essences :  this  we 
call  fortune;  that  serpentine  and  crooked  line,  whereby  He 
draws  those  actions  His  wisdom  intends  in  a  more  unknown 
and  secret  way ;  this  cryptic  and  involved  method  of  His  provi- 
dence have  I  ever  admired;  nor  can  I  relate  the  history  of 
my  life,  the  occurrences  of  my  days,  the  escapes,  or  dangers, 
and  hits  of  chance,  with  a  bezo  las  manos  to  fortune,  or  a  bare 
gramercy  to  my  good  stars.  Abraham  might  have  thought  the 
ram  in  the  thicket  came  thither  by  accident:  human  reason 
would  have  said  that  mere  chance  conveyed  Moses  in  the  ark 
to  the  sight  of  Pharaoh's  daughter.  What  a  labyrinth  is  there 
in  the  story  of  Joseph !  able  to  convert  a  Stoic.  Surely  there 
are  in  every  man's  life  certain  rubs,  doublings,  and  wrenches, 
which  pass  a  while  under  the  effects  of  chance;  but  at  the 
last,  well  examined,  prove  the  mere  hand  of  God.  It  was  not 
dumb  chance  that,  to  discover  the  fougade,  or  powder  plot,  ' 
contrived  a  miscarriage  in  the  letter.  I  like  the  victory  of  '88 
the  better  for  that  one  occurrence  which  our  enemies  imputed 
to  our  dishonor,  and  the  partiality  of  fortune;  to  wit,  the 
tempests  and  contrariety  of  winds.  King  Philip  did  not  detract 
from  the  nation,  when  he  said  he  sent  his  Armada  to  fight  with 
men,  and  not  to  combat  with  the  winds.  Where  there  is  a 
manifest  disproportion  between  the  powers  and  forces  of  two 
several  agents,  upon  a  maxim  of  reason  we  may  promise  the 
victory  to  the  superior:   but  when  unexpected  accidents  slip 

45 


46  BROWNE 

in,  and  unthought  of  occurrences  intervene,  these  must  pro- 
ceed from  a  power  that  owes  no  obedience  to  those  axioms ; 
where,  as  in  the  writing  upon  the  wall,  we  may  behold  the 
hand,  but  see  not  the  spring  that  moves  it.  The  success  of 
that  petty  province  of  Holland  (of  which  the  Grand  Seignior 
proudly  said,  if  they  should  trouble  him,  as  they  did  the  Span- 
iard, he  would  send  his  men  with  shovels  and  pickaxes,  and 
throw  it  into  the  sea)  I  cannot  altogether  ascribe  to  the  in- 
genuity and  industry  of  the  people,  but  the  mercy  of  God,  that 
hath  disposed  them  to  such  a  thriving  genius ;  and  to  the  will 
of  His  providence,  that  disposeth  her  favor  to  each  country 
in  their  preordinate  season.  All  cannot  be  happy  at  once ;  for 
because  the  glory  of  one  state  depends  upon  the  ruin  of  an- 
other, there  is  a  revolution  and  vicissitude  of  their  greatness, 
and  must  obey  the  swing  of  that  wheel,  not  moved  by  intelli- 
gences, but  by  the  hand  of  God,  whereby  all  estates  arise  to 
their  zenith  and  vertical  points,  according  to  their  predestinated 
periods.  For  the  lives,  not  only  of  men,  but  of  commonwealths 
and  the  whole  world,  run  not  upon  a  helix  that  still  enlargeth ; 
but  on  a  circle,  where,  arriving  to  their  meridian,  they  decline 
in  obscurity,  and  fall  under  the  horizon  again. 

These  must  not  therefore  be  named  the  effects  of  fortune 
but  in  a  relative  way,  and  as  we  turn  the  works  of  nature.  It 
was  the  ignorance  of  man's  reason  that  begat  this  very  name, 
and  by  a  careless  term  miscalled  the  providence  of  God :  for 
there  is  no  liberty  for  causes  to  operate  in  a  loose  and  strag- 
gling way ;  nor  any  effect  whatsoever  but  hath  its  warrant 
from  some  universal  or  superior  cause.  It  is  not  a  ridiculous 
devotion  to  say  a  prayer  before  a  game  at  tables ;  for  even 
in  sortileges  and  matters  of  greatest  uncertainty,  there  is  a 
settled  and  preordered  course  of  effects.  It  is  we  that  are 
blind,  not  fortune.  Because  our  eye  is  too  dim  to  discover 
the  mystery  of  her  effects,  we  foolishly  paint  her  blind,  and 
hoodwink  the  providence  of  the  Almighty.  I  cannot  justify 
that  contemptible  proverb,  that  "  fools  only  are  fortunate  " ; 
or  that  insolent  paradox,  that  "  a  wise  man  is  out  of  the  reach 
of  fortune  " :  much  less  those  opprobrious  epithets  of  poets — 
"  whore,"  "  bawd,"  and  "  strumpet."  It  is,  I  confess,  the  com- 
mon fate  of  men  of  singular  gifts  of  mind  to  be  destitute  of 
those  of  fortune ;  which  doth  not  any  way  deject  the  spirit  of 


OF   PROVIDENCE  47 

wiser  judgments  who  thoroughly  understand  the  justice  of  this 
proceeding;  and,  being  enriched  with  higher  donatives,  cast 
a  more  careless  eye  on  these  vulgar  parts  of  felicity.  It  is  a 
most  unjust  ambition,  to  desire  to  engross  the  mercies  of  the 
Almighty,  not  to  be  content  with  the  goods  of  mind,  without 
a  possession  of  those  of  body  or  fortune:  and  it  is  an  error, 
worse  than  heresy,  to  adore  these  complemental  and  circum- 
stantial pieces  of  felicity,  and  undervalue  those  perfections  and 
essential  points  of  happiness,  wherein  we  resemble  our  Maker. 
To  wiser  desires  it  is  satisfaction  enough  to  deserve,  though 
not  to  enjoy,  the  favors  of  fortune.  Let  Providence  provide 
for  fools :  it  is  not  partiality,  but  equity,  in  God,  who  deals  with 
us  but  as  our  natural  parents.  Those  that  are  able  of  body  and 
mind  He  leaves  to  their  deserts ;  to  those  of  weaker  merits  He 
imparts  a  larger  portion;  and  pieces  out  the  defect  of  one  by 
the  excess  of  the  other.  Thus  have  we  no  just  quarrel  with 
nature  for  leaving  us  naked ;  or  to  envy  the  horns,  hoofs,  skins, 
and  furs  of  other  creatures ;  being  provided  with  reason,  that 
can  supply  them  all.  We  need  not  labor,  with  so  many  argu- 
ments, to  confute  judicial  astrology;  for,  if  there  be  a  truth 
therein,  it  doth  not  injure  divinity.  If  to  be  born  under  Mer- 
cury disposeth  us  to  be  witty ;  under  Jupiter  to  be  wealthy ;  I 
do  not  owe  a  knee  unto  these,  but  unto  that  merciful  hand  that 
hath  ordered  my  indifferent  and  uncertain  nativity  unto  such 
benevolent  aspects.  Those  that  hold  that  all  things  are  gov- 
erned by  fortune  had  not  erred,  had  they  not  persisted  there. 
The  Romans,  that  erected  a  temple  to  fortune,  acknowledged 
therein,  though  in  a  blinder  way,  somewhat  of  divinity ;  for,  in 
a  wise  supputation,  all  things  begin  and  end  in  the  Almighty. 
There  is  a  nearer  way  to  heaven  than  Homer's  chain ;  an  easy 
logic  may  conjoin  a  heaven  and  earth  in  one  argument,  and, 
with  less  than  a  sorites,  resolve  all  things  to  God.  For  though 
we  christen  effects  by  their  most  sensible  and  nearest  causes, 
yet  is  God  the  true  and  infallible  cause  of  all ;  whose  concourse, 
though  it  be  general,  yet  doth  subdivide  itself  into  the  par- 
ticular actions  of  everything,  and  is  that  spirit,  by  which  eacfi 
singular  essence  not  only  subsists,  but  performs  its  operation. 


OF    JESTING 


OF    SELF-PRAISING 


OF    COMPANY 


BY 


THOMAS     FULLER 


THOMAS   FULLER 
1608 — 1661 

Thomas  Fuller  was  born  at  Aldwinkle,  in  Northamptonshire,  in 
1608.  His  father,  rector  of  that  parish,  was  probably  his  only  teacher 
till,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  he  sent  him  to  Cambridge,  where  in  1628  he 
took  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts.  At  the  age  of  twenty-three  he 
became  prebend  of  Salisbury,  and  vicar  of  Broad  Windsor.  Here  he 
spent  some  ten  quiet  years  working  in  his  parish  and  writing  his  "  Holy 
War  "  and  "  Pisgah-Sight  of  Palestine."  Tidings  came  to  him  from 
time  to  time  of  the  struggle  which  was  growing  fiercer  every  day  be- 
tween the  nation  and  the  King.  To  Fuller,  the  son  of  a  High-Church- 
man, and  bred  in  the  loyal  University  of  Cambridge,  devotion  to  the 
existing  sovereign  was  the  natural  expression  of  allegiance  to  the 
King  of  kings,  and  it  was  with  grief  and  horror  that  he  heard  of  his 
country's  apostasy.  At  last,  impatient  of  inaction,  he  hastened  to 
London.  There,  in  many  pulpits,  chiefly  those  of  the  Savoy  and  the 
Inns  of  Court,  he  boldly  preached  submission  to  the  Lord's  Anointed. 
His  earnestness  and  brilliant  wit  attracted  crowds  to  listen  to  him, 
and  drew  upon  him  the  observation  of  the  Long  Parliament,  which  was 
then  sitting.  In  1643  he  was  required  to  sign  a  declaration  that  he 
would  support  the  measures  of  Parliament.  He  signed,  with  too  many 
reservations  to  satisfy  the  authorities,  and  the  oath  was  on  the  point 
of  being  tendered  to  him  again,  when  Fuller  quietly  betook  himself  to 
the  King's  quartcis  at  Oxford,  saving  thereby  his  conscience  and  losing 
his  preferment.  Lord  Hopton  made  him  his  chaplain,  and  he  became 
"  preacher  militant "  to  the  King's  soldiers.  As  he  wandered  about 
with  the  army  he  gathered  materials  for  his  "  Worthies  of  England." 
But  such  a  life  was  less  favorable  to  his  "  Church  History."  It  is  of 
no  value  as  a  history  till  it  reaches  his  own  times,  and  yet  it  charms 
by  the  wit  which  sparkles  in  every  page.  In  the  spring  of  1644  he  left 
the  army  and  took  refuge  in  Exeter.  It  was  during  this  lull  that  he 
wrote  his  "  Good  Thoughts  in  Bad  Times."  On  the  surrender  of 
Exeter,  Fuller  obtained  special  terms  from  Fairfax,  under  which  he 
returned  to  London.  He  was  living  in  a  small  lodging,  working  at  his 
"  Worthies "  and  praying  for  the  King's  return,  when  "  that  royal 
martyr  was  murdered,"  and  "  the  foul  deed  "  so  completely  crushed  him 
that  it  was  long  before  he  could  take  heart  to  work  again.  After  1655 
the  Protector  allowed  him  freely  to  preach,  though  other  Royalists 
were  silenced.  On  the  Restoration  he  was  made  Chaplain  extraor- 
dinary to  Charles  II,  and  Doctor  of  Divinity  by  the  University  of 
Cambridge  at  the  King's  request.  He  died  on  August  12,  1661.  He 
was  twice  married.  His  writings  are  full  of  graphic  touches  and  deep 
wisdom,  and  though  his  quaint  fancy  often  led  him  beyond  the  bounds 
of  good  taste,  he  was  never  irreverent  in  meaning.  His  piety  and 
genial  humor  might  well  atone  for  greater  faults. 

Few  writers  tell  a  story  better  than  Fuller;  and  none,  perhaps,  have 
equalled  him  in  the  art  of  conveying  the  truth  under  the  guise  of  a 
familiar-sounding  proverb.  Fuller's  style  is  free  to  a  great  extent  from 
the  Latinisms  which  form  so  large  an  element  in  those  of  most  of 
his  contemporaries.  He  is  more  idiomatic  in  diction,  the  structure  of 
his  sentences  is  simpler,  and  a  larger  proportion  of  the  words  arc  of 
Saxon  derivation. 


50 


OF  JESTING 

HARMLESS  mirth  is  the  best  cordial  against  the  con- 
sumption of  the  spirits :  wherefore  jesting  is  not  un- 
lawful if  it  trespasseth  not  in  quantity,  quality,  or 
season. 

It  is  good  to  make  a  jest,  hut  not  to  make  a  trade  of  jesting. 
The  Earl  of  Leicester,  knowing  that  Queen  Elizabeth  was 
much  delighted  to  see  a  gentleman  dance  well,  brought  the 
master  of  the  dancing-school  to  dance  before  her.  "  Pish," 
said  the  queen,  "  it  is  his  profession,  I  will  not  see  him."  She 
liked  it  not  where  it  was  a  master  quality,  but  where  it  attended 
on  other  perfections.    The  same  may  we  say  of  jesting. 

Jest  not  with  the  two-edged  sword  of  God's  IVord.^  Will 
nothing  please  thee  to  wash  thy  hands  in,  but  the  font,  or  to 
drink  healths  in,  but  the  church  chalice  ?  And  know  the  whole 
art  is  learnt  at  the  first  admission,  and  profane  jests  will  come 
without  calling.  If  in  the  troublesome  days  of  King  Edward 
the  Fourth,  a  citizen  in  Cheapside  was  executed  as  a  traitor  for 
saying  he  would  make  his  son  heir  to  the  Crown,^  though  he 
only  meant  his  own  house,  having  a  crown  for  the  sign ;  more 
dangerous  it  is  to  wit-wanton  it  with  the  majesty  of  God. 
Wherefore,  if  without  thine  intention,  and  against  thy  will,  by 
chance  medley  thou  hittest  Scripture  in  ordinary  discourse,  yet 
fly  to  the  city  of  refuge,  and  pray  to  God  to  forgive  thee. 

Wanton  jests  make  fools  laugh,  and  wise  men  frown.  See- 
ing we  are  civilized  Englishmen,  let  us  not  be  naked  savages  in 
our  talk.  Such  rotten  speeches  are  worst  in  withered  age,  when 
men  run  after  that  sin  in  their  words  which  flieth  from  them 
in  the  deed. 

Let  not  thy  jests,  like  mummy,  he  made  of  dead  men's  tiesh. 
Abuse  not  any  that  are  departed ;  for  to  wrong  their  memories 
is  to  rob  their  ghosts  of  their  winding-sheets. 

>  MixM^Mif  6i9T0fi9y  (,Heb.  iv.  la).  '  Speed,  in  "  Edward  the  Fourth." 

51 


52  FULLER 

Scoff  not  at  the  natural  defects  of  any  which  are  not  in  tUeir 
power  to  amend.  Oh,  it  is  cruelty  to  beat  a  cripple  with  his 
own  crutches !  Neither  flout  any  for  his  profession,  if  honest, 
though  poor  and  painful.  Mock  not  a  cobbler  for  his  black 
thumbs. 

He  that  relates  another  man's  wicked  jests  ivith  delight 
adopts  them  to  be  his  ozvn.  Purge  them  therefore  from  their 
poison.  If  the  profaneness  may  be  severed  from  the  wit,  it  is 
like  a  lamprey ;  take  out  the  string  in  the  back,  it  may  make 
good  meat.  But  if  the  staple  conceit  consists  in  profaneness, 
then  it  is  a  viper,  all  poison,  and  meddle  not  with  it. 

He  that  ivill  lose  his  friend  for  a  jest,  deserves  to  die  \a 
beggar  by  the  bargain.  Yet  some  think  their  conceits,  like 
mustard,  not  good  except  they  bite.  We  read  that  all  those 
w^ho  were  born  in  England  the  year  after  the  beginning  of  the 
great  mortality  1349,*  wanted  their  four  cheek-teeth.  Such  let 
thy  jests  be,  that  may  not  grind  the  credit  of  thy  friend,  and 
make  not  jests  so  long  till  thou  becomest  one. 

No  time  to  break  jests  zvhen  the  heart-strings  are  about  to 
be  broken.  No  more  showing  of  wit  when  the  head  is  to  be 
cut  off,  like  that  dying  man,  who,  when  the  priest  coming  to 
him  to  give  him  extreme  unction,  asked  of  him  where  his  feet 
were,  answered,  "  At  the  end  of  my  legs."  But  at  such  a  time 
jests  are  an  unmannerly  crepitus  ingenii.  And  let  those  take 
heed  who  end  here  with  Democritus,  that  they  begin  not  with 
Heraclitus  hereafter. 

'Tho.  Walsingham,  in  eodem  anno. 


OF  SELF-PRAISING 

"W"  "YE  whose  own  zvorth  doth  speaks  need  not  speak  his  own 
/  /  worth.  Such  boasting  sounds  proceed  from  empti- 
ness of  desert:  whereas  the  conquerors  in  the  Olym- 
pian games  did  not  put  on  the  laurels  on  their  own  heads,  but 
waited  till  some  other  did  it.  Only  anchorets  that  want  com- 
pany may  crown  themselves  with  their  own  commendations. 

It  showeth  more  ivit  hut  no  less  vanity  to  commend  one's 
self,  not  in  a  straight  line,  but  by  reflection.  Some  sail  to  the 
port  of  their  own  praise  by  a  side  wind ;  as  when  they  dispraise 
themselves,  stripping  themselves  naked  of  what  is  their  due, 
that  the  modesty  of  the  beholders  may  clothe  them  with  it  again, 
or  when  they  flatter  another  to  his  face,  tossing  the  ball  to 
him  that  he  may  throw  it  back  again  to  them ;  or  when  they 
commend  that  quality  wherein  themselves  excel,  in  another  man, 
though  absent,  whom  all  know  far  their  inferior  in  that  faculty ; 
or  lastly,  to  omit  other  ambushes  men  set  to  surprise  praise, 
when  they  send  the  children  of  their  own  brain  to  be  nursed 
by  another  man,  and  commend  their  own  works  in  a  third  per- 
son ;  but  if  challenged  by  the  company  that  they  were  authors 
of  them  themselves,  with  their  tongues  they  faintly  deny  it, 
and  with  their  faces  strongly  affirm  it. 

Self-praising  comes  most  naturally  from  a  man  when  it  comes 
most  violently  from  him  in  his  own  defence.  For  though  mod- 
esty binds  a  man's  tongue  to  the  peace  in  this  point,  yet  being 
assaulted  in  his  credit  he  may  stand  upon  his  guard,  and  then 
he  doth  not  so  much  praise  as  purge  himself.  One  braved  a 
gentleman  to  his  face,  that  in  skill  and  valor  he  came  far  behind 
him :  "  It  is  true,"  said  the  other,  "  for  when  I  fought  with 
you,  you  ran  away  before  me."  In  such  a  case,  it  was  well 
returned,  and  without  any  just  aspersion  of  pride. 

He  that  falls  into  sin  is  a  man;  that  grieves  at  it  is  a  saint; 
that  boasteth  of  it  is  a  devil    Yet  some  glory  in  their  shame, 

5i 


54 


FULLER 


counting  the  stains  of  sin  the  best  complexion  for  their  souls. 
These  men  make  me  beHeve  it  may  be  true  what  Mandeville 
writes  of  the  isle  of  Somabarre,  in  the  East  Indies,  that  all  the 
nobility  thereof  brand  their  faces  with  a  hot  iron  in  token  of 
honor. 

He  that  boasts  of  sins  never  committed  is  a  double  devil. 
Many  brag  how  many  gardens  of  virginity  they  have  deflow- 
ered, who  never  came  near  the  walls  thereof.  .  .  .  Others, 
who  would  sooner  creep  into  a  scabbard  than  draw  a  sword, 
boast  of  their  robberies,  to  usurp  the  esteem  of  valor.  Whereas 
first  let  them  be  well  whipped  for  their  lying,  and  as  they  like 
that,  let  them  come  afterward  and  entitle  themselves  to  the 
gallows. 


OF  COMPANY 

^^OMPANY  IS  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  the  nature 
i  of  man.    For  the  beams  of  joy  are  made  hotter  by  re- 

flection, when  related  to  another ;  and  otherwise  glad- 
ness itself  must  grieve  for  want  of  one  to  express  itself  to. 

It  is  unnatural  for  a  man  to  court  and  hug  solitariness.  It  is 
observed,  that  the  farthest  islands  in  the  world  are  so  seated 
that  there  is  none  so  remote  but  that  from  some  shore  of  it 
another  island  or  continent  may  be  discerned ;  as  if  hereby 
nature  invited  countries  to  a  mutual  commerce,  one  with  an- 
other. Why  then  should  any  man  affect  to  environ  himself 
with  so  deep  and  great  reservedness,  as  not  to  communicate  with 
the  society  of  others?  And  though  we  pity  those  who  made 
solitariness  their  refuge  in  time  of  persecution,  we  must  con- 
demn such  as  choose  it  in  the  Church's  prosperity.  For  well 
may  we  count  him  not  well  in  his  wits  who  will  live  always 
under  a  bush,  because  others  in  a  storm  shelter  themselves 
under  it. 

Yet  a  desert  is  better  than  a  debauched  companion.  For  the 
wildness  of  the  place  is  but  uncheerful,  whilst  the  wildness  of 
bad  persons  is  also  infectious.  Better  therefore  ride  alone  than 
have  a  thief's  company.  And  such  is  a  wicked  man  who  will 
rob  thee  of  precious  time,  if  he  doth  no  more  mischief.  The 
Nazarites,  who  might  drink  no  wine,  were  also  forbidden 
(Num.  vi.  3)  to  eat  grapes,  whereof  wine  is  made.  We  must 
not  only  avoid  sin  itself,  but  also  the  causes  and  occasions 
thereof;  amongst  which  bad  company  (the  lime-twigs  of  the 
devil)  is  the  chief  est,  especially  to  catch  those  natures  which, 
like  the  good-fellow  planet.  Mercury,  are  most  swayed  by 
others. 

//  thou  beest  cast  into  bad  company,  like  Hercules  thou  must 
sleep  zvith  thy  club  in  thine  hand,  and  stand  on  thy  guard.  I 
mean  if  against  thy  will  the  tempest  of  an  unexpected  occasion 

55 


56  FULLER 

drives  thee  amongst  such  rocks ;  be  thou  like  the  river  Dee,  ia 
Merionethshire  in  Wales,^  which  running  through  Pimblemere 
remains  entire,  and  mingles  not  her  streams  with  the  waters 
of  the  lake.  Though  with  them,  be  not  of  them ;  keep  civil 
communion  with  them,  but  separate  from  their  sins.  And  if 
against  thy  will  thou  fallest  amongst  wicked  men,  know  to 
thy  comfort  thou  art  still  in  thy  calling,  and  therefore  in  God's 
keeping,  who  on  thy  prayers  will  preserve  thee. 

The  company  lie  keeps  is  the  comment  by  help  whereof  men 
expound  the  most  close  and  mystical  man;  understanding  him 
for  one  of  the  same  religion,  life,  and  manners  with  his  associ- 
ates. And  though  perchance  he  be  not  such  a  one,  it  is  just  he 
should  be  counted  so  for  conversing  with  them.  Augustus 
Caesar  came  thus  to  discern  his  two  daughters'  inclinations :  for 
being  once  at  a  public  show,  where  much  people  were  present,  he 
observed  that  the  grave  senators  talked  with  Livia,  but  loose 
youngsters  and  riotous  persons  with  Julia.'' 

He  that  eats  cherries  ivith  noblemen  shall  have  his  eyes 
spirted  out  with  the  stones.  This  outlandish  proverb  hath  in  it 
an  English  truth,  that  they  who  constantly  converse  with  men 
far  above  their  estates,  shall  reap  shame  and  loss  thereby;  if 
thou  payest  nothing  they  will  count  thee  a  sucker,  no  branch ;  a 
wen,  no  member  of  their  company ;  if  in  payments  thou  keepest 
pace  with  them,  their  long  strides  will  soon  tire  thy  short  legs. 
The  beavers  in  New  England,  when  some  ten  of  them  together 
draw  a  stick  to  the  building  of  their  lodging,  set  the  weakest 
beavers  to  the  lighter  end  of  the  log,^  and  the  strongest  take  the 
heaviest  part  thereof :  whereas  men  often  lay  the  greatest  bur- 
then on  the  weakest  back ;  and  great  persons  to  teach  meaner 
men  to  learn  their  distance,  take  pleasure  to  make  them  pay  for 
their  company.  I  expect  such  men  who,  having  some  excellent 
quality,  are  gratis  very  welcome  to  their  betters ;  such  a  one, 
though  he  pays  not  a  penny  of  the  shot,  spends  enough  in  lend- 
ing them  his  time  and  discourse. 

To  affect  ahvays  to  be  the  best  of  the  company  argues  a  base 
disposition.  Gold  always  worn  in  the  same  purse  with  silver 
loses  both  of  the  color  and  weight ;  and  so  to  converse  always 
with  inferiors,  degrades  a  man  of  his  worth.     Such  there  are 

*  "  Cambd.  Brit,  in  Merioneth."  •  Wood,  in  his  "  Description  of  New 

*  Sueton.,  in  "  August.  Cxs."  England. 


OF   COMPANY  57 

that  love  to  be  the  lords  of  the  company,  whilst  the  rest  must 
be  their  tenants ;  as  if  bound  by  their  lease  to  approve,  praise, 
and  admire  whatsoever  they  say.  These,  knowing  the  lowness 
of  their  parts,  love  to  live  with  dwarfs,  that  they  may  seem 
proper  men.  To  come  amongst  their  equals,  they  count  it  an 
abridgment  of  their  freedom,  but  to  be  with  their  betters,  they 
deem  it  flat  slavery. 

It  is  excellent  for  one  to  have  a  library  of  scholars,  especially 
if  they  he  plain  to  he  read.  I  mean  of  a  communicative  nature, 
whose  discourses  are  as  full  as  fluent,  and  their  judgments  as 
ri^ht  as  their  tongues  ready:  such  men's  talk  shall  be  thy 
lectures.  To  conclude,  good  company  is  not  only  profitable 
whilst  a  man  lives^  but  sometimes  when  he  is  dead.  For  he 
that  was  buried  with  the  bones  of  Elisha,  by  a  posthumous 
miracle  of  that  prophet,  recovered  his  life  by  lodging  with  such  a 
grave-fellow.* 

*2  Kings  xiii.  21. 


ON     EDUCATION 


BY 


JOHN    MILTON 


JOHN   MILTON 

1608 — 1674 

Far  above  all  poets  of  his  own  age,  and  in  learning,  sublimity,  and 
invention  witliout  an  equal  in  the  whole  range  of  English  literature, 
stands  John  Milton.  He  was  born  in  London  on  December  9,  1608. 
In  youth  he  was  a  hard  student,  and  devoted  his  time  most  assiduously 
to  classical  literature.  A  remark  of  his  has  often  been  quoted,  that 
he  "  cared  not  how  late  he  came  into  life,  only  that  he  came  fit."  That 
he  believed  himself  destined  to  become  of  note  appears  from  his  own 
words:  "By  labor  and  intense  study  (which  I  take  to  be  my  portion 
in  this  life),  joined  with  the  strong  propensity  of  nature,  I  might 
perhaps  leave  something  to  after-times,  as  they  should  not  willingly 
let  it  die."  The  idea  of  his  unequalled  poem  of  "  Paradise  Lost "  was 
probably  conceived  as  early  as  1642,  but  it  was  not  published  till  about 
twenty-five  years  after  that  date.  When  it  was  written,  the  British 
press  was  subject  to  a  censorship,  and  he  experienced  some  difficulty 
in  getting  it  licensed,  the  sapient  gentleman  who  then  possessed  the 
power  of  rejecting  or  sanctioning  any  works  submitted  to  him,  imag- 
ining that  in  the  noble  simile  of  the  sun  in  an  eclipse  he  discovered 
treason.  It  was,  however,  licensed,  and  sold  to  Samuel  Simmons,  a 
bookseller,  for  an  immediate  payment  of  £5,  with  a  condition  that  on 
1,300  copies  being  sold  the  author  should  receive  £5  more,  and  the 
same  for  the  second  and  third  editions.  In  two  years  the  sale  of  the 
poem  gave  the  poet  a  right  to  his  second  payment,  the  receipt  for  which 
was  signed  April  26,  1669.  The  second  edition  was  printed  in  1674, 
but  the  author  did  not  live  to  receive  the  stipulated  payment ;  the  third 
edition  was  published  in  1678,  when,  the  copyright  devolving  on  Mil- 
ton's widow,  she  agreed  with  Simmons  to  receive  £8  for  it;  so  that 
£18  was  the  sum-total  paid  for  the  best  poem  of  the  first  of  British 
poets.  Milton  died  at  his  house  in  Bunhill  Row,  London,  November 
8,  1674. 

Milton's  chief  prose  works  are :  "  Two  Books  on  Reformation  in 
England,"  "  Prelatical  Episcopacy,"  "  Eikonoklastes,"  "  Areopagitica," 
and  "  Treatise  on  Education."  His  prose,  like  that  of  many  of  our 
early  writers,  is  of  very  unequal  quality.  Hallam  says  that  his  inter- 
mixture of  familiar  with  learned  phraseology  is  unpleasing,  and  the 
structure  of  his  sentences  elaborate;  that  he  seldom  reaches  any  har- 
mony, and  that  his  wit  is  poor  and  without  ease.  If  the  justness  of 
Hallam's  strictures  must  be  admitted,  we  may  also  accept  his  praise 
that  these  writings  glow  with  an  intense  love  of  liberty  and  truth, 
and  contain  frequent  passages  of  the  highest  imaginative  power,  in 
which  the  majestic  soul  of  Milton  breathes  such  high  thoughts  as  had, 
not  been  uttered  before. 


60 


ON   EDUCATION 

TO  MASTER  SAMUEL  HARTLIB 

I  AM  long  since  persuaded,  Master  Hartlib,^  that  to  say  or 
do  aught  worth  memory  and  imitation,  no  purpose  or 
respect  should  sooner  move  us  than  simply  the  love  of 
God,  and  of  mankind.  Nevertheless  to  write  now  the  reform- 
ing of  education,  though  it  be  one  of  the  greatest  and  noblest 
designs  that  can  be  thought  on,  and  for  the  want  whereof  this 
nation  perishes;  I  had  not  yet  at  this  time  been  induced,  but 
by  your  earnest  entreaties  and  serious  conjurements;  as  hav- 
ing my  mind  for  the  present  half  diverted  in  the  pursuance  of 
some  other  assertions,  the  knowledge  and  the  use  of  which  can- 
not but  be  a  great  furtherance  both  to  the  enlargement  of  truth, 
and  honest  living  with  much  more  peace.  Nor  should  the  laws 
of  any  private  friendship  have  prevailed  with  me  to  divide 
thus,  or  transpose  my  former  thoughts,  but  that  I  see  those 
aims,  those  actions,  which  have  won  you  with  me  the  esteem 
of  a  person  sent  hither  by  some  good  providence  from  a  far 
country  to  be  the  occasion  and  incitement  of  great  good  to 
this  island. 

2.  And,  as  I  hear,  you  have  obtained  the  same  repute  with  men 
of  most  approved  wisdom,  and  some  of  the  highest  authority 
among  us;  not  to  mention  the  learned  correspondence  which 
you  hold  in  foreign  parts,  and  the  extraordinary  pains  and 
diligence  which  you  have  used  in  this  matter,  both  here  and 
beyond  the  seas ;  either  by  the  definite  will  of  God  so  ruling, 
or  the  peculiar  sway  of  nature,  which  also  is  God's  working. 
Neither  can  I  think  that  so  reputed  and  so  valued  as  you  are, 
you  would,  to  the  forfeit  of  your  own  discerning  ability,  impose 

*  Of  Hartlib  little  more  is  known  than  expressions   in   this   and   the   following 

that  he  was  a  friend  of  Milton,  who  had  paragraphs,    he   would   appear   to   have 

studied  with  peculiar  diligence  the  sci-  been  a  foreigner;  for  he  is  spoken  of 

ence   of   education,    and   to   whom    Sir  as  one  sent  hither  from  a  far  country, 

William   Petty  subsequently   dedicated  and  allusion  is  made  to  his  labors  be* 

one  of  his  earliest  works.    From  several  yond  the  seas. 

6i 


62  MILTON 

upon  me  an  unfit  and  overponderous  argument;  but  that  the 
satisfaction  which  you  profess  to  have  received,  from  those  in- 
cidental discourses  which  we  have  wandered  into,  hath  pressed 
and  almost  constrained  yov:  into  a  persuasion,  that  what  you 
require  from  me  in  this  point,  I  neither  ought  nor  can  in  con- 
science defer  beyond  this  time  both  of  so  much  need  at  once, 
and  so  much  opportunity  to  try  what  God  hath  determined. 

3.  I  will  not  resist  therefore  whatever  it  is,  either  of  divine 
or  human  obligement,  that  you  lay  upon  me ;  but  will  forthwith 
set  down  in  writing,  as  you  request  me,  that  voluntary  idea, 
which  hath  long,  in  silence,  presented  itself  to  me,  of  a  better 
education,  in  extent  and  comprehension  far  more  large,  and 
yet  of  time  far  shorter,  and  of  attainment  far  more  certain, 
than  hath  been  yet  in  practice.  Brief  I  shall  endeavor  to  be; 
for  that  which  I  have  to  say,  assuredly  this  nation  hath  ex- 
treme need  should  be  done  sooner  than  spoken.  To  tell  you 
therefore  what  I  have  benefited  herein  among  old  renowned 
authors,  I  shall  spare ;  and  to  search  what  many  modern  Januas 
and  Didactics,  more  than  ever  I  shall  read,  have  projected, 
my  inclination  leads  me  not.  But  if  you  can  accept  of  these 
few  observations  which  have  flowered  ofif,  and  are  as  it  were 
the  burnishing  of  many  studious  and  contemplative  years, 
altogether  spent  in  the  search  of  religious  and  civil  knowledge, 
and  such  as  pleased  you  so  well  in  the  relating,  I  here  give 
you  them  to  dispose  of. 

4.  The  end  then  of  learning  is  to  repair  the  ruins  of  our  first 
parents  by  regaining  to  know  God  aright,  and  out  of  that  knowl- 
edge to  love  him,  to  imitate  him,  to  be  like  him,  as  we  may 
the  nearest  by  possessing  our  souls  of  true  virtue,  which  being 
united  to  the  heavenly  grace  of  faith,  makes  up  the  highest 
perfection.  But  because  our  understanding  cannot  in  this  body 
found  itself  but  on  sensible  things,  nor  arrive  so  clearly  to  the 
knowledge  of  God  and  things  invisible,  as  by  orderly  conning 
over  the  visible  and  inferior  creature,  the  same  method  is  neces- 
sarily to  be  followed  in  all  discreet  teaching.  And  seeing  every 
nation  affords  not  experience  and  tradition  enough  for  all  kinds 
of  learning,  therefore  we  are  chiefly  taught  the  languages  of 
those  people  who  have  at  any  time  been  most  industrious  after 
wisdom ;  so  that  language  is  but  the  instrument  conveying  to 
us  things  useful  to  be  known.    And  though  a  linguist  should! 


ON  EDUCATION  63 

pride  himself  to  have  all  the  tongues  that  Babel  cleft  the  world 
into,^  yet  if  he  have  not  studied  the  solid  things  in  them,  as 
well  as  the  words  and  lexicons,  he  were  nothing  so  much  to 
be  esteemed  a  learned  man,  as  any  yeoman  or  tradesman  com- 
petently wise  in  his  mother  dialect  only. 

5.  Hence  appear  the  many  mistakes  which  have  made  learning 
generally  so  unpleasing  and  so  unsuccessful ;  first,  we  do  amiss 
to  spend  seven  or  eight  years  merely  in  scraping  together  so 
much  miserable  Latin  and  Greek,  as  might  be  learned  other- 
wise easily  and  delightfully  in  one  year.^  And  that  which 
casts  our  proficiency  therein  so  much  behind,  is  our  time  lost 
partly  in  too  oft  idle  vacancies  given  both  to  schools  and  uni- 
versities ;  partly  in  a  preposterous  exaction,  forcing  the  empty 
wits  of  children  to  compose  themes,  verses,  and  orations,  which 
are  the  acts  of  ripest  judgment,  and  the  final  work  of  a  head 
filled  by  long  reading  and  observing,  with  elegant  maxims  and 
copious  invention.  These  are  not  matters  to  be  wrung  from 
poor  striplings,  like  blood  out  of  the  nose,  or  the  plucking  of 
untimely  fruit.  Besides  the  ill  habit  which  they  get  of  wretched 
barbarizing  against  the  Latin  and  Greek  idiom,  with  their  un- 
tutored Anglicisms,  odious  to  be  read,  yet  not  to  be  avoided 
without  a  well-continued  and  judicious  conversing  among  pure 
authors  digested,  which  they  scarce  taste.*  Whereas,  if  after 
some  preparatory  grounds  of  speech  by  their  certain  forms  got 
into  memory,  they  were  led  to  the  praxis  thereof  in  some  chosen 
short  book  lessoned  thoroughly  to  them,  they  might  then  forth- 
with proceed  to  learn  the  substance  of  good  things,  and  arts 
in  due  order,  which  would  bring  the  whole  language  quickly 
into  their  power.  This  I  take  to  be  the  most  rational  and  most 
profitable  way  of  learning  languages,  and  whereby  we  may 
best  hope  to  give  account  to  God  of  our  youth  spent  herein. 

6.  And  for  the  usual  method  of  teaching  arts,  I  deem  it  to  be 

*  Though  he  himself  understood  many  ladius,  Cclsus  on  "  Medicine,"  PHny's 
languages,  and  appears  to  have  pos-  "  Natural  History^"  Vitruvius  s  Ar- 
sessed  a  peculiar  aptitude  for  this  kind  chitecture,"  FrontinuB's  Stratagcnis, 
of  learning,  no  one  could  be  further  and  the  "  Philosophical  Poems  of  Lu- 
than  he  from  pedantry.  In  his  view,  cretius  and  Manilius '  ;  in  Greek, 
language  was  merely  the  instrument  of  Hesiod.  Aratus,  Dionysius  Periegesis. 
knowledge.  Oppian  s  "  Cynegetica  and  Halieutics, 

*  On  this  subject,  see  Locke's  "  Essay  Apollonius  Rhodius,  Quintus  Calaber, 
on  Education.'*  certain     of      Plutarch's      philosophical 

*  Philips,  a  pupil  of  Milton,  furnishes  works,  Geminu»'s  "  Astronomv,'  Xeno- 
us  with  a  list  of  the  books  which  he  phon's  "  Cyropsedia  "  and  '  AnabasiSn^"* 
himself  made  use  of  in  teaching:  these  Polyaenus's  "Stratagems,  and  iGllsn  • 
were,  in  Latin,  the  agricultural  works  Tactics." 

oi  Cato,   Columella,   Varro,   and   Pal- 


64  MILTON 

an  old  error  of  universities,  not  yet  well  recovered  from  the 
scholastic  grossness  of  barbarous  ages,  that  instead  of  begin- 
ning with  arts  most  easy  (and  those  be  such  as  are  most  obvious 
to  the  sense),  they  present  their  young  unmatriculated  novices, 
at  first  coming,  with  the  most  intellective  abstractions  of  logic 
and  metaphysics;  so  that  they  having  but  newly  left  those 
grammatic  flats  and  shallows,  where  they  stuck  unreasonably 
to  learn  a  few  words  with  lamentable  construction,  and  now 
on  the  sudden  transported  under  another  climate,  to  be  tossed 
and  turmoiled  with  their  unballasted  wits  in  fathomless  and  un- 
quiet deeps  of  controversy,  do  for  the  most  part  grow  into  hatred 
and  contempt  of  learning,  mocked  and  deluded  all  this  while 
with  ragged  notions  and  babblements,  while  they  expected 
worthy  and  delightful  knowledge;  till  poverty  or  youthful 
years  call  them  importunately  their  several  ways,  and  hasten 
them,  with  the  sway  of  friends,  either  to  an  ambitious  and  mer- 
cenary or  ignorantly  zealous  divinity ;  some  allured  to  the  trade 
of  law,  grounding  their  purposes  not  on  the  prudent  and 
heavenly  contemplation  of  justice  and  equity,  which  was  never 
taught  them,  but  on  the  promising  and  pleasing  thoughts  of 
litigious  terms,  fat  contentions,  and  flowing  fees ;  others  betake 
them  to  state  affairs,  with  souls  so  unprincipled  in  virtue  and 
true  generous  breeding,  that  flattery  and  court-shifts  and  tyran- 
nous aphorisms  ^  appear  to  them  the  highest  points  of  wisdom ; 
instilling  their  barren  hearts  with  a  conscientious  slavery;  if, 
as  I  rather  think,  it  be  not  feigned.  Others,  lastly,  of  a  more 
delicious  and  airy  spirit,  retire  themselves  (knowing  no  better) 
to  the  enjoyments  of  ease  and  luxury,  living  out  their  days  in 
feast  and  jollity ;  which  indeed  is  the  wisest  and  safest  course 
of  all  these,  unless  they  were  with  more  integrity  undertaken. 
And  these  are  the  errors,  and  these  are  the  fruits  of  misspend- 
ing our  prime  youth  at  the  schools  and  universities  as  we  do, 
either  in  learning  mere  words  or  such  things  chiefly  as  were 
better  unlearned. 

7.  I  shall  detain  you  now  no  longer  in  the  demonstration  of 
what  we  should  not  do,  but  straight  conduct  you  to  a  hill-side, 
where  I  will  point  you  out  the  right  path  of  a  virtuous  and 

•  His  hatred  and  contempt  of  tyranny  the  law,  which  appears  to  have  a  natural 

everywhere    break    forth.      Bacon,    him-  tendency    to    narrow   and    enfeeble    the 

self   a  lawyer,   likewise   notices  the  too  mind.     Our  history,  however,  furnishes 

common  cfiect  of  a  laborious  study  of  some  brilliant  exceptions. 


ON  EDUCATION  65 

noble  education;  laborious  indeed  at  the  first  ascent,  but  else 
so  smooth,  so  green,  so  full  of  goodly  prospect,  and  melodious 
sounds  on  every  side,  that  the  harp  of  Orpheus  was  not  more 
charming.^  I  doubt  not  but  ye  shall  have  more  ado  to  drive 
our  dullest  and  laziest  youth,  our  stocks  and  stubs,  from  the  in- 
finite desire  of  such  a  happy  nurture,  than  we  have  now  to  hale 
and  drag  our  choicest  and  hopefullest  wits  to  that  asinine  feast 
of  sowthistles  and  brambles,  which  is  commonly  set  before  them 
as  all  the  food  and  entertainment  of  their  tenderest  and  most 
docible  age.  I  call  therefore  a  complete  and  generous  educa- 
tion, that  which  fits  a  man  to  perform  justly,  skilfully,  and 
magnanimously  all  the  offices,  both  private  and  public,  of  peace 
and  war.  And  how  all  this  may  be  done  between  twelve  and  one 
and  twenty,  less  time  than  is  now  bestowed  in  pure  trifling  at 
grammar  and  sophistry,  is  to  be  thus  ordered. 

8.  First,  to  find  out  a  spacious  house  and  ground  about  it  fit 
for  an  academy,  and  big  enough  to  lodge  a  hundred  and  fifty 
persons,'^  whereof  twenty  or  thereabout  may  be  attendants,  all 
under  the  government  of  one,  who  shall  be  thought  of  desert 
sufficient,  and  ability  either  to  do  all,  or  wisely  to  direct  and 
oversee  it  done.  This  place  should  be  at  once  both  school  and 
university,  not  needing  a  remove  to  any  other  house  of  scholar- 
ship, except  it  be  some  peculiar  college  of  law,  or  physic,  where 
they  mean  to  be  practitioners ;  but  as  for  those  general  studies 
which  take  up  all  our  time  from  Lilly  to  commencing,  as  they 
term  it,  master  of  art,  it  should  be  absolute.  After  this  pattern, 
as  many  edifices  may  be  converted  to  this  use  as  shall  be  needful 
in  every  city  throughout  this  land,  which  would  tend  much  to 
the  increase  of  learning  and  civility  everywhere.  This  number, 
less  or  more  thus  collected,  to  the  convenience  of  a  foot  com- 
pany, or  interchangeably  two  troops  of  cavalry,  should  divide 
their  day's  work  into  three  parts  as  it  lies  orderly ;  their  studies, 
their  exercise,  and  their  diet. 

«  He  had  already,  in  Comus,  described  been   more   nearly  approached  than   ip 
the  delight  derivable  from  the  study  of  the  public  schools  of  Egypt.     The  Col- 
philosophy:  le^e  of  Kasserlyne,  on  the  banks  of  the 
"  How  charming  is  divine  philosophy  I  Nile,  is  such  "a  spacious  house,"  with 
Not  harsh  and  crabbed  as  dull  fools  beautiful   and  ample  grounds  about  it; 
suppose,  but   in    the    interior   arrangements,   the 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute,  studies,   and   the   results,   we   must   not 
And    a    perpetual    feast    of    nectared  look  for  anything  resembling  \yhat  the 
sweets  P.°ct  proposed  in  this  democratic  estab- 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns."  lishment.    See  "  Egypt  and  Mohamine<l 
»  Nowhere    has    the    material    frame-  All,"  vol.  ii.  p.  395  sq. 

work  of  Milton's  system  of  education 

4— Vol.  57 


06  MILTON 

9.  For  their  studies ;  first,  they  should  begin  with  the  chief  and 
•necessary  rules  of  some  good  grammar,  either  that  now  used, 
or  any  better;  and  while  this  is  doing,  their  speech  is  to  be 
fashioned  to  a  distinct  and  clear  pronunciation,  as  near  as  may 
be  to  the  Italian,  especially  in  the  vowels.  For  we  English- 
men being  far  northerly,  do  not  open  our  mouths  in  the  cold 
air  wide  enough  to  grace  a  southern  tongue ;  but  are  observed 
by  all  other  nations  to  speak  exceeding  close  and  inward;  so 
that  to  smatter  Latin  with  an  English  mouth,  is  as  ill  a  hearing 
as  law  French.  Next,  to  make  them  expert  in  the  usefuUest 
points  of  grammar ;  and  withal  to  season  them  and  win  them 
early  to  the  love  of  virtue  and  true  labor,  ere  any  flattering 
seducement  or  vain  principle  seize  them  wandering,  some  easy 
and  delightful  book  of  education  would  be  read  to  them; 
whereof  the  Greeks  have  store,  as  Cebes,  Plutarch,  and  other 
Socratic  discourses.  But  in  Latin  we  have  none  of  classic 
authority  extant,  except  the  two  or  three  first  books  of  Quin- 
tilian,  and  some  select  pieces  elsewhere. 

13.  But  here  the  main  skill  and  groundwork  will  be  to  temper 
them  such  lectures  and  explanations  upon  every  opportunity, 
as  may  lead  and  draw  them  in  willing  obedience,  inflamed  with 
the  study  of  learning,  and  the  admiration  of  virtue ;  stirred  up 
with  high  hopes  of  living  to  be  brave  men,  and  worthy  patriots, 
dear  to  God,  and  famous  to  all  ages.  That  they  may  despise 
and  scorn  all  their  childish  and  ill-taught  qualities,  to  delight 
in  manly  and  liberal  exercises ;  which  he  who  hath  the  art  and 
proper  eloquence  to  catch  them  with,  what  with  mild  and 
eflfectual  persuasions,  and  what  with  the  intimation  of  some  fear, 
if  need  be,  but  chiefly  by  his  own  example,  might  in  a  short 
space  gain  them  to  an  incredible  diligence  and  courage ;  infus- 
ing into  their  young  breasts  such  an  ingenuous  and  noble  ardor, 
as  would  not  fail  to  make  many  of  them  renowned  and  match- 
less men.^  At  the  same  time,  some  other  hour  of  the  day,  might 
be  taught  them  the  rules  of  arithmetic,  and  soon  after  the  ele- 
ments of  geometry,  even  playing,  as  the  old  manner  was. 
After  evening  repast,  till  bedtime,  their  thoughts  would  be  best 

•  He  here  alludes  to  the  Socratic  sys-  would  profit  no  less  less  than  the  pu- 

tem  of  education,  frequently  glanced  at  pils — perhaps   rhore.     Adam    Smith    ob- 

in  all  the  dialogues  of  Plato,  but  more  serves  that  almost  all  the  great  writers 

fully  developed  in  the   Protagoras.     In  of    Greece    had    been    engaged    in    the 

pursuing  a  plan  of  this  kind,  the  teacher  business  of   education. 


ON  EDUCATION  67 

taken  up  in  the  easy  grounds  of  religion,  and  the  story  of 
Scripture. 

The  next  step  would  be  to  the  authors  of  agriculture,  Cato, 
Varro,  and  Columella,  for  the  matter  is  most  easy ;  and  if  the 
language  be  difficult,  so  much  the  better,  it  is  not  a  difficulty 
above  their  years.  And  here  will  be  an  occasion  of  inciting 
and  enabling  them  hereafter  to  improve  the  tillage  of  their 
country,  to  recover  the  bad  soil,  and  to  remedy  the  waste  that 
is  made  of  good ;  ^  for  this  was  one  of  Hercules's  praises. 
Ere  half  these  authors  be  read  (which  will  soon  be  with  plying 
hard  and  daily)  they  cannot  choose  but  be  masters  of  any 
ordinary  prose.  So  that  it  will  be  then  seasonable  for  them  to 
learn  in  any  modern  author  the  use  of  the  globes,  and  all  the 
maps,  first,  with  the  old  names,  and  then  with  the  new ;  ^°  or 
they  might  be  then  capable  to  read  any  compendious  method 
of  natural  philosophy. 

12.  And  at  the  same  time  might  be  entering  into  the  Greek 
tongue,  after  the  same  manner  as  was  before  prescribed  in  the 
Latin;  whereby  the  difficulties  of  grammar  being  soon  over- 
come, all  the  historical  physiology  of  Aristotle  and  Theophrastus 
are  open  before  them,  and,  as  I  may  say,  under  contribution. 
The  like  access  will  be  to  Vitruvius,  to  Seneca's  natural  ques- 
tions, to  Mela,  Celsus,  Pliny,  or  Solinus.  And  having  thus 
passed  the  principles  of  arithmetic,  geometry,  astronomy,  and 
geography,  with  a  general  compact  of  physics,  they  may  descend 
in  mathematics  to  the  instrumental  science  of  trigonometry, 
and  from  thence  to  fortification,  architecture,  enginery,  or 
navigation.  And  in  natural  philosophy  they  may  proceed  lei- 
surely from  the  history  of  meteors,  minerals,  plants,  and  living 
creatures,  as  far  as  anatomy. 

13.  Then  also  in  course  might  be  read  to  them,  out  of  some  not 
tedious  writer,  the  institution  of  physic,^^  that  they  may  know 

*  Dr.   Symmons  remarks,  that  in   agrU  has  since   been  adopted,   particularly   at 

culture  no  benefit  could  now  be  derived  Eton,    where,  with    the    help  of  Arrow- 

from  the  study  of  ancient  authors.    But  smith's  "  Comparative   Atlas,"   in  which 

Milton    never    intended    that    his    pupils  the  ancient  and    modern    maps  of  coun- 

should    seek    to   improve    themselves    in  tries   are   bound  up  face  to  face,  a    lad 

husbandry    by    reading    Varro    or   Cato.  may   quickly    acquire    a    knowledge    at 

His  design  extended  no  further  than  to  least    of    the    elements    of    this    useful 

render  their  boyish   studies   a    means  of  science. 

awakening  in  their  minds  a  love  of  rural  "  Like  Locke,  Milton  is  said  to  have 

pursuits,  which  age  and  experience  might  been  fond  of  the  study  of  medicine,  and, 

afterwards  enable  them  to  to  turn  to  good  by    unskilfully    tampering    with     it,    to 

account.  have  injured  his  sight.     But  this  report 

>'  This    mode    of  studying   geography  appears  to  rest  on  no  good  foundation,  j 


68  MILTON 

the  tempers,  the  humors,  the  seasons,  and  how  to  manage  a  cru- 
dity; which  he  who  can  wisely  and  timely  do,  is  not  only  a 
great  physician  to  himself  and  to  his  friends,  but  also  may,  at 
some  time  or  other,  save  an  army  by  this  frugal  and  expenseless 
means  only ;  and  not  let  the  healthy  and  stout  bodies  of  young 
men  rot  away  under  him  for  want  of  this  discipline ;  which  is  a 
great  pity,  and  no  less  a  shame  to  the  commander.  To  set  for- 
ward all  these  proceedings  in  nature  and  mathematics,  what 
hinders  but  that  they  may  procure,  as  oft  as  shall  be  needful, 
the  helpful  experience  of  hunters,  fowlers,  fishermen,  shep- 
herds, gardeners,  apothecaries ;  and  in  the  other  sciences,  archi- 
tects, engineers,  mariners,  anatomists ;  who  doubtless  would  be 
ready,  some  for  reward,  and  some  to  favor  such  a  hopeful 
seminary.  And  this  will  give  them  such  a  real  tincture  of 
natural  knowledge,  as  they  shall  never  forget,  but  daily  aug- 
ment with  delight.  Then  also  those  poets  which  are  now 
counted  most  hard  will  be  both  facile  and  pleasant,  Orpheus, 
Hesiod,  Theocritus,  Aratus,  Nicander,  Oppian,  Dionysius  ;  and 
in  Latin,  Lucretius,  Manilius,  and  the  rural  part  of  Vergil. 

14.  By  this  time,  years  and  good  general  precepts,  will  have 
furnished  them  more  distinctly  with  that  act  of  reason  which  in 
ethics  is  called  Proairesis ;  that  they  may  with  some  judgment 
contemplate  upon  moral  good  and  evil.  Then  will  be  required 
a  special  reinforcement  of  constant  and  sound  indoctrinating, 
to  set  them  right  and  firm,  instructing  them  more  amply  in  the 
knowledge  of  virtue  and  the  hatred  of  vice ;  while  their  young 
and  pliant  affections  are  led  through  all  the  moral  works  of 
Plato,  Xenophon,  Cicero,  Plutarch,  Laertius,  and  those  Locrian 
remnants ;  ^^  but  still  to  be  reduced  in  their  nightward  studies 
wherewith  they  close  the  day's  work,  under  the  determinate 
sentence  of  David  or  Solomon,  or  the  evangelists  and  apostolic 
Scriptures.  Being  perfect  in  the  knowledge  of  personal  duty, 
they  may  then  begin  the  study  of  economics.^^       And  either 

'*  Timaeus   of    Locris,    who    flourished  ''The  works  here  alluded  to  are:    I. 

about  390  B.C.,  was  one  of  the  masters  the     'OtKoyvniKix;     Ao-yot,      of  Xenophon, 

of    Plato.      There    remains,    under    his  a  Socratic  dialogue,   containing  instruc- 

name,    a   treatise   written    in   the    Doric  tive   details    on    Greek   agriculture^  and 

dialect,     ncpi     i^vvo?     Ko<7fi.ov     <coi  i/)ii<rio«  several  anecdotes  of  the  younger  Cyrus. 

that  is,  "  On  the  Soul  of  the  World,  and  Cicero  translated  the  work   into   Latin. 

Nature."       Its    autlienticity     has     been  2.  The     O'lKoroniKa.    attributed   to    Aris- 

much    disputed.      In    1762,   the    Marquis  totle,   but  falselv,  according  to   Schnei- 

d'Argens  published  at  Berlin  the  Greek  der,  who  published  a  new  edition  of  it, 

text,  accompanied  by  a  French  transla-  in  1815,  at  Leipsic.     And,  3.   The    V**'' 

tion,  with  philosophical  dissertations.  irefiiea     of     Cassianus    Bassus,    which, 


ON  EDUCATION  ^9 

now  or  before  this,  they  may  have  easily  learnea,  at  any  odd 
hour,  the  ItaHan  tongue.  And  soon  after,  but  with  wariness 
and  good  antidote,  it  would  be  wholesome  enough  to  let  them 
taste  some  choice  comedies,  Greek,  Latin,  6r  Italian;  those 
tragedies  also,  that  treat  of  household  matters,  as  Trachiniae, 
Alcestis,  and  the  like. 

15.  The  next  removal  must  be  to  the  study  of  politics ;  to  know 
the  beginning,  end,  and  reasons  of  political  societies ;  "  that  they 
may  not,  in  a  dangerous  fit  of  the  commonwealth,  be  such  poor, 
shaken,  uncertain  reeds,  of  such  a  tottering  conscience,  as 
many  of  our  great  counsellors  have  lately  shown  themselves, 
but  steadfast  pillars  of  the  state.  After  this,  they  are  to  dive 
into  the  grounds  of  law,  and  legal  justice;  delivered  first  and 
with  best  warrant  by  Moses ;  and  as  far  as  human  prudence 
can  be  trusted,  in  those  extolled  remains  of  Grecian  lawgivers, 
Lycurgus,  Solon,  Zaleucus,  Charondas,  and  thence  to  all  the 
Roman  edicts  and  tables  with  their  Justinian :  and  so  down  to 
the  Saxon  and  common  laws  of  England,  and  the  statutes. 

16.  Sundays  also  and  every  evening  may  be  now  understand- 
ingly  spent  in  the  highest  matters  of  theology,  and  church  his- 
tory, ancient  and  modern  ;  and  ere  this  time  the  Hebrew  tongue 
at  a  set  hour  might  have  been  gained,  that  the  Scriptures  may 
be  now  read  in  their  own  original ;  whereto  it  w^ould  be  no 
impossibility  to  add  the  Chaldee  and  the  Syrian  dialect.^^ 
When  all  these  employments  are  well  conquered,  then  will  the 
choice  histories,  heroic  poems,  and  Attic  tragedies  of  stateliest 
and  most  regal  argument,  with  all  the  famous  political  orations, 
offer  themselves ;  which  if  they  were  not  only  read,  but  some 
of  them  got  by  memory ,^^  and  solemnly  pronounced  with  right 
accent  and  grace,  as  might  be  taught,  would  endue  them  even 
with  the  spirit  and  vigor  of  Demosthenes  or  Cicero,  Euripides 
or  Sophocles. 

17.  And  now,  lastly,  will  be  the  time  to  read  with  them  those 
organic  arts,  which  enable  men  to  discourse  and  write  perspicu- 

Etnidst  much  that  is.  worthless,  contains  of  Athens  to  commit  entire  speeches  to 

many    curious   and    interesting   particu-  memory.     Xenophon,    in   the    Memora- 

lars.  bilia,    introduces    a    youth    who    could 

"  Politics  were  studied  as  a  science  repeat  the  whole  Iliad;  Cicero,  De  Gra- 
in Milton's  age;  and  the  taste  appears  tore,  speaks  with  commendation  of  this 
to  be  reviving.  kind  of  mental  exercise;  and  it  may  be 

"  He   here   recommends   nothing  but  observed,  generally,  that  the  science  of 

what  he  himself  understood.  mnemonics  was   cultivated   much   more 

"  From  the  Phaedrus  we  learn  that  it  carefully  among  the  ancients  than  it  has 

was  the  practice  among  the  young  men  ever  been  in  modern  times. 


70  MILTON 

ously,  elegantly,  and  according  to  the  fittest  style,  of  lofty,  mean, 
or  lowly.  Logic, ^^  therefore,  so  much  as  is  useful,  is  to  be 
referred  to  this  due  place  with  all  her  well-couched  heads  and 
topics,  until  it  be  time  to  open  her  contracted  palm  into  a  graccv 
ful  and  ornate  rhetoric,  taught  out  of  the  rule  of  Plato,  Aristo- 
tle, Phalereus,  Cicero,  Hermogenes,  Longinus."  To  which 
poetry  would  be  made  subsequent,  or  indeed  rather  precedent, 
as  being-  less  subtile  and  fine,  but  more  simple,  sensuous,  and 
passionate.  I  mean  not  here  the  prosody  of  a  verse,  which 
they  could  not  but  have  hit  on  before  among  the  rudiments  of 
grammar;  but  that  sublime  art  which  in  Aristotle's  poetics,  in 
Horace,  and  the  Italian  commentaries  of  Castelvetro,"  Tasso, 
Mazzoni,  and  others,  teaches  what  the  laws  are  of  a  true  epic 
poem,  what  of  a  dramatic,  what  of  a  lyric,  what  decorum  is, 
which  is  the  grand  masterpiece  to  observe.  This  would  make 
them  soon  perceive  what  despicable  creatures  our  common 
rhymers  and  play-writers  be;  and  show  them  what  religious, 
what  glorious  and  magnificent  use  might  be  made  of  poetry, 
both  in  divine  and  human  things. 

i8.  From  hence,  and  not  till  now,  will  be  the  right  season  of 
forming  them  to  be  able  writers  and  composers  in  every  excel- 
lent matter,  when  they  shall  be  thus  fraught  with  an  universal 
insight  into  things.  Or  whether  they  be  to  speak  in  parliament 
or  council,  honor  and  attention  would  be  waiting  on  their  lips. 
iThere  would  then  also  appear  in  pulpits  other  visages,  other 
gestures,  and  stuflf  otherwise  wrought  than  what  we  now  sit 
under,  ofttimes  to  as  great  a  trial  of  our  patience  as  any  other 
that  they  preach  to  us.  These  are  the  studies  wherein  our 
noble  and  our  gentle  youth  ought  to  bestow  their  time,  in  a 
disciplinary  way,  from  twelve  to  one  and  twenty :  unless  tfiey 
rely  more  upon  their  ancestors  dead,  than  upon  themselves 
living.  In  which  methodical  course  it  is  so  supposed  they  must 
proceed  by  the  steady  pace  of  learning  onward,  as  at  convenient 
times,  for  memory's  sake,  to  retire  back  into  the  middle  ward, 
and  sometimes  into  the  rear  of  what  they  have  been  taught,  un- 

"  In  1672,  Milton  himself  published  a  ter  of  whom  has,   by  his  compendious 

work  on  Logic,  entitled  "  Artis  Logicae  Rhetoric,  done  good  service  to  the  cause 

Plenior   Institutio,   ad   Petri   Rami   Me-  of  eloquence.     Of  this  work  the  second 

thodum  Concinnata,  Adjecta  est  Praxis  and  best  edition  was  published  at  Ley- 

Analytica,    ct    Patri    Rami    Vita.    Libris  den,   1637. 

Duobus."  "*  Piccolomini   and   Beni   deserve  als« 

"  To    these    should    undoubtedly    be  to  be  enumerated  among  the  excellent 

added  Quinctilian  and  Vossius,  the  lat-  commentators  of  the  Poetics. 


ON   EDUCATION  71 

til  they  have  confirmed  and  solidly  united  the  whole  body  of 
their  perfected  knowledge,  like  the  last  embattling  of  a  Roman 
legion.  Now  will  be  worth  the  seeing,  what  exercises  and 
recreations  may  best  agree,  and  become  these  studies. 

19.  The  course  of  study  hitherto  briefly  described  is  what  I 
can  guess  by  reading,  likest  to  those  ancient  and  famous  schools 
of  Pythagoras,  Plato,  Isocrates,  Aristotle,  and  such  others,  out 
of  which  were  bred  such  a  number  of  renowned  philosophers, 
orators,  historians,  poets,  and  princes  all  over  Greece,  Italy,  and 
Asia,  besides  the  flourishing  studies  of  Cyrene  and  Alexandria. 
But  herein  it  shall  exceed  them,  and  supply  a  defect  as  great 
as  that  which  Plato  noted  in  the  commonwealth  of  Sparta ;  ^* 
whereas  that  city  trained  up  their  youth  most  for  war,  and 
these  in  their  academies  and  Lyceum  all  for  the  gown,  this 
institution  of  breeding  which  I  here  delineate  shall  be  equally 
good  both  for  peace  and  war.  Therefore  about  an  hour  and  a 
half  ere  they  eat  at  noon  should  be  allowed  them  for  exercise, 
and  due  rest  afterwards ;  but  the  time  for  this  may  be  enlarged 
at  pleasure,  according  as  their  rising  in  the  morning  shall  be 
early. 

20.  The  exercise  which  I  commend  first  is  the  exact  use  of 
their  weapon,  to  guard,  and  to  strike  safely  with  edge  or  point ; 
this  will  keep  them  healthy,  nimble,  strong,  and  well  in  breath ; 
is  also  the  likeliest  means  to  make  them  grow  large,  and  tall,  and 
to  inspire  them  with  a  gallant  and  fearless  courage,  which 
being  tempered  with  seasonable  lectures  and  precepts  to  them 
of  true  fortitude  and  patience  will  turn  into  a  native  and  heroic 
valor,  and  meke  them  hate  the  cowardice  of  doing  wrong. 
They  must  be  also  practised  in  all  the  locks  and  gripes  of  wres- 
tling, wherein  Englishmen  were  wont  to  excel,^^  as  need  may 

*"  See     Plato,     "  De     Legibus,"    1.    i.  have  been  expected,  that  the  culture  of 

Opera,    t.    vii.    p.    181    sq.    edit.    Bekk.  the    body    should    precede    that    of    the 

Aristotle  notices  the  same  defect  in  the  mind;  but  is  far  from  inculcating,  with 

Spartan    government;    and    adds    that,  many  writers,  the  necessity  of  acquiring 

though  military  superiority  was  the  ob-  athletic  habits  of  body,  which  have,  on 

ject   aimed   at   by    Lycurgus,    they   had  the  growth   and   shape,   effects   no   less 

been   excelled   by   their   neighbors    (the  injurious    than    on    the    intellect.      At 

Athenians?)    no    less   in   the  virtues   of  Sparta,  where  gymnastic  exercises  were 

war  than  in  the  arts  of  peace. — "Politics,"  not  pursued  as  a  profession,   excessive 

1.  ii.  and  1.  v.  c.  4.    Muller,  in  his  "  His-  labor   produced    no    less    dangerous   re- 

tory  and  Antiquity  of  the  Doric  Race,"  suits— unfeeling    and    ferocious    habits, 

endeavors  to   exalt  the  political  institu-  During  the  years  preceding  puberty  all 

tions  of  the  Spartans  above  the  popular  violent    exercises    and    forced   regimens 

governments   of   the    lonians.— Vol.    ii.,  are  pernicious;  which  is  clear  from  the 

p.   1-269.  ^^ct  that,  of  those  who  won  the  prize  m 

21  Aristotle's  remarks  on  the  employ-  boyhood  in   the   Olympic   contests,   not 

ment  of  exercise  in  education  are  full  above  two  or  three   had  again   proved 

of  good   sense.     He   allows,  as   might  victors  in  manhood.— "Pohtics,    I.  v.  c.4J 


72  MILTON 

often  be  in  fight  to  tug,  to  grapple,  and  to  close.  And  this 
perhaps  will  be  enough,  wherein  to  prove  and  heat  their  single 
strength. 

21.  The  interim  of  unsweating  themselves  regularly,  and  con- 
venient rest  before  meat,  may,  both  with  profit  and  delight,  be 
taken  up  in  recreating  and  composing  their  travailed  spirits  with 
the  solemn  and  divine  harmonies  of  music,^^  heard  or  learned ; 
either  whilst  the  skilful  organist  plies  his  grave  and  fancied 
descant  in  lofty  fugues,  or  the  whole  symphony  with  artful 
and  unimaginable  touches  adorn  and  grace  the  well-studied 
chords  of  some  choice  composer;  sometimes  the  lute  or  soft 
organ-stop  waiting  on  elegant  voices,  either  to  religious,  mar- 
tial, or  civil  ditties ;  which,  if  wise  men  and  prophets  be  not 
extremely  out,  have  a  great  power  over  dispositions  and  man- 
ners, to  smooth  and  make  them  gentle  from  rustic  harshness 
and  distempered  passions.  The  like  also  would  not  be  inex- 
pedient after  meat,  to  assist  and  cherish  nature  in  her  first 
concoction,  and  send  their  minds  back  to  study  in  good  tune  and 
satisfaction.  Where  having  followed  it  close  under  vigilant 
eyes,  till  about  two  hours  before  supper,  they  are,  by  a  sudden 
alarum  or  watchword,  to  be  called  out  to  their  military  mo- 
tions, under  sky  or  covert,  according  to  the  season,  as  was  the 
Roman  wont ;  first  on  foot,  then,  as  their  age  permits,  on 
horseback,  to  all  the  art  of  cavalry;  that  having  in  sport,  but 
with  much  exactness  and  daily  muster,  served  out  the  rudi- 
ments of  their  soldiership,  in  all  the  skill  of  embattling,  march- 
ing, encamping,  fortifying,  besieging,  and  battering,  with  all 
the  helps  of  ancient  and  modern  stratagems,  tactics,  and  war- 
like maxims,  they  may  as  it  were  out  of  a  long  war  come  forth 
renowned  and  perfect  commanders  in  the  service  of  their  coun- 
try. They  would  not  then,  if  they  were  trusted  with  fair  and 
hopeful  armies,  suflfer  them,  for  want  of  just  and  wise  dis- 
cipline, to  shed  away  from  about  them  like  sick  feathers,  though 
they  be  never  so  oft  supplied;    they  would  not  suffer  their 

see  also  1.   ii.  c.  3.     Plato,  in  his  "  Re-  Married  to  immortal  verse, 

public,"    observes    that    too    continuous  Such  a^s  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 

an    application    to    gymnastics,    to    the  In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 

neglect  of  music,   engenders  ferocity. —  Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

"  Opera,"  t.  vi.  152.  With    wanton    heed,    and    giddy    cua- 

**  In    his    "  L' Allegro  "    he    thus    d«-  ning, 

scribes  the  deliffhts  of  music:  The  melting  voice  through  mazes  ruit 
*'  And  ever  against  eating  cares,  ning, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs,  Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tic 

Tbc  hidden  soul  of  harmony," 


ON   EDUCATION 


73 


empty  and  unrecruitable  colonels  of  twenty  men  in  a  company, 
to  quaff  out  or  convey  into  secret  hoards,  the  wages  of  a  delu- 
sive list,  and  a  miserable  remnant ;  yet  in  the  mean  while  to  be 
overmastered  with  a  score  or  two  of  drunkards,  the  only  soldiery 
left  about  them,  or  else  to  comply  with  all  rapines  and  violences. 
No,  certainly,  if  they  knew  aught  of  that  knowledge  that  be- 
longs to  good  men  or  good  governors,  they  would  not  suffer 
these  things. 

22.  But  to  return  to  our  own  institute ;  besides  these  constant 
exercises  at  home,  there  is  another  opportunity  of  gaining  ex- 
perience to  be  won  from  pleasure  itself  abroad ;  in  those  vernal 
seasons  of  the  year  when  the  air  is  calm  and  pleasant,  it  were  an 
injury  and  sullenness  against  nature,  not  to  go  out  and  see  her 
riches,  and  partake  in  her  rejoicing  with  heaven  and  earth.  I 
should  not  therefore  be  a  persuader  to  them  of  studying  much 
then,  after  two  or  three  years  that  they  have  well  laid  their 
grounds,  but  to  ride  out  in  companies,  with  prudent  and  staiH 
guides,  to  all  the  quarters  of  the  land :  learning  and  observing 
all  places  of  strength,  all  commodities  of  building  and  of  soil, 
for  towns  and  tillage,  harbors  and  ports  for  trade.  Sometimes 
taking  sea  as  far  as  to  our  navy,  to  learn  there  also  what  th«y 
can  in  the  practical  knowledge  of  sailing  and  of  sea-fight. 

23.  These  ways  would  try  all  their  peculiar  gifts  of  nature; 
and  if  there  were  any  secret  excellence  among  them  would  fetch 
it  out,  and  give  it  fair  opportunities  to  advance  itself  by,  which 
could  not  but  mightily  redound  to  the  good  of  this  nation,  and 
bring  into  fashion  again  those  old  admired  virtues  and  excel- 
lencies, with  far  more  advantage  now  in  this  purity  of  Chris- 
tian knowledge.  Nor  shall  we  then  need  the  monsieurs  of 
Paris  to  take  our  hopeful  youth  into  their  slight  and  prodigal 
custodies,  and  send  them  over,  back  again,  transformed  into' 
mimics,  apes,  and  kickshaws.  But  if  they  desire  to  see  other 
countries  at  three  or  four  and  twenty  years  of  age,  not  to  learn 
principles,  but  to  enlarge  experience,  and  make  wise  observa- 
tion, they  will  by  that  time  be  such  as  shall  deserve  the  regard 
and  honor  of  all  men  where  they  pass,  and  the  society  and 
friendship  of  those  in  all  places  who  are  best  and  most  eminent. 
And,  perhaps,  then  other  nations  will  be  glad  to  visit  us  for  their 
breeding,  or  else  to  imitate  us  in  their  own  country. 

24.  Now,  lastly,  for  their  diet  there  cannot  be  much  to  say, 


74  MILTON 

save  only  that  it  would  be  best  in  the  same  house ;  for  much  time 
else  would  be  lost  abroad,  and  many  ill  habits  got ;  and  that  it 
should  be  plain,  healthful,  and  moderate,  I  suppose  is  out  of  con- 
troversy. Thus,  Mr.  Hartlib,  you  have  a  general  view  in  writ- 
ing, as  your  desire  was,  of  that  which  at  several  times  I  had 
discoursed  with  you  concerning  the  best  and  noblest  way  of 
education ;  not  beginning,  as  some  have  done,  from  the  cradle, 
which  yet  might  be  worth  many  considerations,  if  brevity  had 
not  been  my  scope ;  many  other  circumstances  also  I  could  have 
mentioned,  but  this,  to  such  as  have  the  worth  in  them  to  make 
trial,  for  light  and  direction  may  be  enough.  Only  I  believe  that 
this  is  not  a  bow  for  every  man  to  shoot  in,  that  counts  himself 
a  teacher;  but  will  require  sinews  almost  equal  to  those  which 
Homer  gave  Ulysses ;  yet  I  am  withal  persuaded  that  it  may 
prove  much  more  easy  in  the  assay,  than  it  now  seems  at  dis- 
tance, and  much  more  illustrious ;  howbeit,  not  more  difficult 
than  I  imagine,  and  that  imagination  presents  me  with  nothing 
but  very  happy,  and  very  possible  according  to  best  wishes; 
if  God  have  so  decreed,  and  this  age  have  spirit  and  capacitj' 
enough  to  apprehend. 


OF    GREATNES 


OF     MYSELF 


BY 


ABRAHAM    COWLE 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY 
161&— 1667 

Literature  has  changed  greatly  in  the  last  two  hundred  years,  not 
only  in  form  and  substance,  but  in  relation  to  the  basis  upon  which  it 
rests.  In  the  seventeenth  century  writing  was  a  gentle  accomplish- 
ment, an  after-dinner  pastime,  an  art  to  be  acquired  by  the  study  of 
Latin  authors.  Courtiers,  in  starched  ruflf  and  doublet,  told  their 
affection  for  Dresden-china  mistresses  in  coldly  passionate  sonnets, 
of  regular  rhyme  and  metre.  No  one  felt  at  liberty  to  write  without 
the  Greek  mythology  at  his  elbow,  for  it  was  the  fashion  to  weave  the 
gentle  by-play  of  nymphs  and  naiads  into  polite  writing.  Men  learned 
to  write  as  we  now  learn  to  play  golf,  and  the  result  bears  the  same 
relation  to  potential  literature  as  the  play  of  golf  bears  to  modern 
business.  So  there  grew  up  in  that  period  a  band  of  essayists  and 
poets  whose  productions  were  those  of  the  hot-house  and  the  boudoir, 
artificial,  inert,  vacuous.  Cowley  was  of  this  school,  though  he  pos- 
sessed some  true  literary  genius,  which  was  almost  stifled  by  the  false 
training  of  the  age,  and  by  the  false  ideals  he  set  up  for  himself. 

Much  of  his  work  was  precocious.  In  1633,  when  he  was  but  fifteen 
years  of  age,  he  published  a  small  volume,  called  "  Poetical  Blossoms." 
This  work  contains  many  passages  of  genuine  poetic  feeling,  and  is 
a  marvellous  production  for  a  schoolboy.  Cowley  was  a  Royalist,  and 
he  followed  the  exiled  Stuarts  to  France,  where  he  was  in  intimate 
relation  with  many  prominent  persons  of  the  exiled  court.  After  the 
Restoration  he  was  disappointed  in  not  receiving  the  political  prefer- 
ment he  hoped  for,  so  he  retired  to  his  country  house  on  the  Thames, 
where  the  remainder  of  his  life  was  spent  in  study  and  writing.  He 
died  there  in  1667. 

It  is  hard  to  realize  that  Cowley  was  considered  a  great  poet  in  his 
day.  He  has  left  to  posterity  "  The  Mistress,"  the  "  Davideis,"  and 
many  odes  after  the  manner  of  Pindar — all  stilted,  tedious,  and  arti- 
ficial. But  in  his  essays  his  style  is  natural  and  simple.  The  essay 
on  "  Myself  "  is  probably  the  best  of  his  shorter  prose  writings.  The 
study  of  Cowley  is  useful  only  from  the  standpoint  of  historical 
criticism.  He  has  no  place  in  the  breathing,  moving,  vital  literature  of 
to-day.  The  message  he  brought  has  long  since  been  assimilated,  and 
the  readers  of  to-day  are  upon  a  broader  and  higher  plane  of  culture. 


76 


OF   GREATNESS 

SINCE  we  cannot  attain  to  greatness,"  says  the  Sieur  de 
Montaigne,  "  let  us  have  our  revenge  by  raiHng  at  it :  " 
this  he  spoke  but  in  jest.  I  believe  he  desired  it  no 
more  than  I  do,  and  had  less  reason ;  for  he  enjoyed  so  plenti- 
ful and  honorable  a  fortune  in  a  most  excellent  country,  as 
allowed  him  all  the  real  conveniences  of  it,  separated  and  purged 
from  the  incommodities.  If  I  were  but  in  his  condition,  I  should 
think  it  hard  measure,  without  being  convinced  of  any  crime, 
to  be  sequestrated  from  it,  and  made  one  of  the  principal  officers 
of  state.  But  the  reader  may  think  that  what  I  now  say  is  of 
small  authority,  because  I  never  was,  nor  ever  shall  be,  put  to 
the  trial :   I  can  therefore  only  make  my  protestation : 

If  ever  I  more  riches  did  desire 
Than  cleanliness  and  quiet  do  require: 
If  e'er  ambition  did  my  fancy  cheat, 
With  any  wish,  so  mean  as  to  be  great, 
Continue,   Heaven,   still  from  me  to  remove 
The  humble  blessings  of  that  life  I  love. 

I  know  very  many  men  will  despise,  and  some  pity  me,  for  this 
humor,  as  a  poor-spirited  fellow;  but  I  am  content,  and,  like 
Horace,  thank  God  for  being  so. 

•*  Dz  bene  fecer tint,  z'tiopz's  me  quodque  pusilli^ 
Finxerunt  aninii. "  * 

I  confess  I  love  littleness  almost  in  all  things.  A  little  con- 
venient estate,  a  little  cheerful  house,  a  little  company,  and  a 
very  little  feast ;  and,  if  I  were  to  fall  in  love  again  (which  is  a 
great  passion,  and  therefore,  I  hope,  I  have  done  with  it),  it 
would  be,  I  think,  with  prettiness,  rather  than  with  majestical 
beauty.    I  would  neither  wish  that  my  mistress,  nor  my  fortune, 

*  Horace,  Sat.  I.  iv.  17:    "  The  gods  have  done  well  in  making  roe  a  humble 
and  small-spirited  fellow." 

77 


7»  COWLEY 

should  be  a  bona  roha,  nor,  as  Homer  uses  to  describe  his 
beauties,  hke  a  daughter  of  great  Jupiter,  for  the  statehness  and 
largeness  of  her  person ;  but,  as  Lucretius  says, 

" Parvula,  pumtlio,  Xaplruv  fila,  Ma  meriim  sal." 

Where  there  is  one  man  of  this,  I  believe  there  are  a  thoiv 
sand  of  Senecio's  mind,  whose  ridiculous  affectation  of  gran- 
deur Seneca  the  elder  describes  to  this  effect:  Senecio  was  a 
man  of  a  turbid  and  confused  wit,  who  could  not  endure  to 
speak  any  but  mighty  words  and  sentences,  till  this  humor 
grew  at  last  into  so  notorious  a  habit,  or  rather  disease,  as  be- 
Jcame  the  sport  of  the  whole  town :  he  would  have  no  servants, 
but  huge,  massy  fellows ;  no  plate  or  household  stuff,  but  thrice 
as  big  as  the  fashion :  you  may  believe  me,  for  I  speak  it  with- 
out raillery,  his  extravagancy  came  at  Jast  into  such  a  madness 
that  he  would  not  put  on  a  pair  of  shoes,  each  of  which  was  not 
big  enough  for  both  his  feet:  he  would  eat  nothing  but  what 
was  great,  nor  touch  any  fruit  but  horse-plums  and  pound- 
pears  :  he  kept  a  concubine  that  was  a  very  giantess,  and  made 
her  walk  too  always  in  chiopins,  till  at  last  he  got  the  surname 
of  Senecio  Grandio,  which,  Messala  said,  was  not  his  cognomen, 
but  his  cognomentum:  when  he  declaimed  for  the  three  hun- 
dred Lacedaemonians,  who  alone  opposed  Xerxes's  army  of 
above  three  hundred  thousand,  he  stretched  out  his  arms,  and 
stood  on  tiptoes,  that  he  might  appear  the  taller,  and  cried  out, 
in  a  very  loud  voice :  "  I  rejoice,  I  rejoice  " — we  wondered,  I 
remember  what  new  great  fortune  had  befallen  his  eminence — 
"  Xerxes,"  says  he,  "  is  all  mine  own.  He  who  took  away  the 
sight  of  the  sea  with  the  canvas  veils  of  so  many  ships  " — and 
then  he  goes  on  so,  as  I  know  not  what  to  make  of  the  rest, 
whether  it  be  the  fault  of  the  edition,  or  the  orator's  own  burly 
way  of  nonsense. 

This  is  the  character  that  Seneca  gives  of  this  hyperbolical 
fop,  whom  we  stand  amazed  at,  and  yet  there  are  very  few  men 
who  are  not  in  some  things,  and  to  some  degrees,  grandios. 
Is  anything  more  common  than  to  see  our  ladies  of  quality  wear 
such  high  shoes  as  they  cannot  walk  in,  without  one  to  lead 
them ;  and  a  gown  as  long  again  as  their  body,  so  that  they  can- 
not stir  to  the  next  room,  without  a  page  or  two  to  hold  it  up? 
I  may  safely  say  that  all  the  ostentation  of  our  grandees  is  just 


OF   GREATNESS  79 

like  a  train,  of  no  use  in  the  world,  but  horribly  cumbersome 
and  incommodious.  What  is  all  this  but  a  spice  of  gr audio? 
how  tedious  would  this  be  if  we  were  always  bound  to  it!  I 
do  believe  there  is  no  king  who  would  not  rather  be  deposed 
than  endure,  every  day  of  his  reign,  all  the  ceremonies  of  his 
coronation. 

The  mightiest  princes  are  glad  to  fly  often  from  these  ma- 
jestic pleasures  (which  is,  methinks,  no  small  disparagement 
to  them)  as  it  were  for  refuge,  to  the  most  contemptible  diver- 
tisements,  and  meanest  recreations,  of  the  vulgar,  nay,  even 
of  children.  One  of  the  most  powerful  and  fortunate  princes 
of  the  world,^  of  late,  could  find  out  no  delight  so  satisfactory, 
as  the  keeping  of  little  singing  birds,  and  hearing  of  them,  and 
whistling  to  them.  What  did  the  emperors  of  the  whole  world  ? 
If  ever  any  men  had  the  free  and  full  enjoyment  of  all  human 
greatness  (nay,  that  would  not  suffice,  for  they  would  be  gods 
too),  they  certainly  possessed  it:  and  yet  one  of  them,  who 
styled  himself  lord  and  god  of  the  earth,  could  not  tell  how  to 
pass  his  whole  day  pleasantly,  without  spending  constantly 
two  or  three  hours  in  catching  of  flies,  and  killing  them  with  a 
bodkin,  as  if  his  godship  had  been  Beelzebub.^  One  of  his  pred- 
ecessors, Nero  (who  never  put  any  bounds,  nor  met  with  any 
stop  to  his  appetite),  could  divert  himself  with  no  pastime  more 
agreeable  than  to  run  about  the  streets  all  night  in  a  disguise, 
and  abuse  the  women,  and  affront  the  men  whom  he  met,  and 
sometimes  to  beat  them,  and  sometimes  to  be  beaten  by  them : 
this  was  one  of  his  imperial  nocturnal  pleasures.  His  chiefest 
in  the  day  was  to  sing  and  play  upon  a  fiddle,  in  the  habit  of  a 
minstrel,  upon  the  public  stage :  he  was  prouder  of  the  garlands 
that  were  given  to  his  divine  voice  (as  they  called  it  then)  in 
those  kind  of  prizes  than  all  his  forefathers  were  of  their  tri- 
umphs over  nations :  he  did  not  at  his  death  complain  that  so 
mighty  an  emperor,  and  the  last  of  all  the  Caesarian  race  of 
deities,  should  be  brought  to  so  shameful  and  miserable  an  end ; 
but  only  cried  out,  "  Alas !  what  pity  it  is  that  so  excellent  a 
musician  should  perish  in  this  manner !  "  His  uncle  Claudius 
spent  half  his  time  at  playing  at  dice ;  that  was  the  main  fruit 

*  Louis  XIII.    The  Duke  of  Luynes,        by  training  up  singing  birds  for  him.— 
Constable   of    France,    is   said    to    have        Anonymous. 
gained  the  favor  of  this  powerful  prince  ^  Beelzebub    signifies    the    Lord    of 

'Elits.— Cowley. 


So  COWLEY 

of  his  sovereignty.  I  omit  the  madnesses  of  CaHgula's  delights, 
and  the  execrable  sordidness  of  those  of  Tiberius.  Would  one 
think  that  Augustus  himself,  the  highest  and  most  fortunate 
of  mankind,  a  person  endowed  too  with  many  excellent  parts 
of  nature,  should  be  so  hard  put  to  it  sometimes  for  want  of 
recreations,  as  to  be  found  playing  at  nuts  and  bounding-stones 
with  little  Syrian  and  Moorish  boys,  whose  company  he  took 
delight  in,  for  their  prating  and  their  wantonness  ? 

Was  it  for  this  that  Rome's  best  blood  he  spilt, 

With  so  much  falsehood,  so  much  guilt? 

Was  it  for  this,  that  his  ambition  strove 

To  equal  Caesar,  first;  and  after,  Jove? 

Greatness  is  barren,  sure,  of  solid  joys; 

Her  merchandise  (I  fear)  is  all  in  toys: 

She  could  not  else,  sure,  so  uncivil  be. 

To  treat  his  universal  majesty. 

His  new-created  deity, 

With  nuts  and  bounding-stones  and  boys. 

But  we  must  excuse  her  for  this  meagre  entertainment ;  she 
has  not  really  wherewithal  to  make  such  feasts  as  we  imagine. 
Her  guests  must  be  contented  sometimes  with  but  slender  cates, 
and  with  the  same  cold  meats  served  over  and  over  again,  even 
till  they  become  nauseous.  When  you  have  pared  away  all  the 
vanity,  what  solid  and  natural  contentment  does  there  remain, 
which  may  not  be  had  with  five  hundred  pounds  a  year?  Not 
so  many  servants  or  horses;  but  a  few  good  ones,  which  will 
do  all  the  business  as  well :  not  so  many  choice  dishes  at  every 
meal ;  but  at  several  meals  all  of  them,  which  makes  them  both 
the  more  healthy,  and  the  more  pleasant :  not  so  rich  garments, 
nor  so  frequent  changes;  but  as  warm  and  as  comely,  and  so 
frequent  change  too,  as  is  every  jot  as  good  for  the  master, 
though  not  for  the  tailor  or  valet  de  chambre:  not  such  a 
stately  palace,  nor  gilt  rooms,  or  the  costliest  sorts  of  tapestry ; 
but  a  convenient  brick  house,  with  decent  wainscot,  and  pretty 
forest-work  hangings.  Lastly  (for  I  omit  all  other  particulars, 
and  will  end  with  that  which  I  love  most  in  both  conditions), 
not  whole  woods  cut  in  walks,  nor  vast  parks,  nor  fountain  or 
cascade  gardens ;  but  herb,  and  flower,  and  fruit  gardens,  which 
are  more  useful,  and  the  water  every  whit  as  clear  and  whole- 
some as  if  it  darted  from  the  breasts  of  a  marble  nymph,  or  the 
urn  of  a  river  god. 


OF   GREATNESS  8i 

If,  for  all  this,  you  like  better  the  substance  of  that  former 
estate  of  life,  do  but  consider  the  inseparable  accidents  of  both : 
servitude,  disquiet,  danger,  and,  most  commonly,  guilt,  inherent 
in  the  one ;  in  the  other,  liberty,  tranquillity,  security,  and  inno- 
cence. And  when  you  have  thought  upon  this,  you  will  con- 
fess that  to  be  a  truth  which  appeared  to  you  before  but  a  ridicu- 
lous paradox,  that  a  low  fortune  is  better  guarded  and  attended 
than  a  high  one.  If,  indeed,  we  look  only  upon  the  flourishing 
head  of  the  tree,  it  appears  a  most  beautiful  object, 

"  Sed  quantu7n  vert  ice  ad  auras 
^therms,  tantutn  radice  in  Tartar  a  tendit." 

As  far  as  up  towards  heaven  the  branches  grow, 
So  far  the  roots  sink  down  to  hell  below. 

Another  horrible  disgrace  to  greatness  is,  that  it  is  for  the 
most  part  in  pitiful  want  and  distress.  What  a  wonderful  thing 
is  this !  Unless  it  degenerate  into  avarice,  and  so  cease  to  be 
greatness,  it  falls  perpetually  into  such  necessities  as  drive  it 
into  all  the  meanest  and  most  sordid  ways  of  borrowing,  cozen- 
age, and  robbery : 

**  MancipHs  locuples,  eget  ceris  Cappadocum  rex." 

This  is  the  case  of  almost  all  great  men,  as  well  as  of  the  poof 
King  of  Cappadocia:  they  abound  with  slaves,  but  are  in- 
digent of  money.  The  ancient  Roman  emperors,  who  had  the 
riches  of  the  whole  world  for  their  revenue,  had  wherewithal 
to  live  (one  would  have  thought)  pretty  well  at  ease,  and  to 
have  been  exempt  from  the  pressures  of  extreme  poverty.  But, 
yet  with  most  of  them  it  was  much  otherwise;  and  they  fell 
perpetually  into  such  miserable  penury,  that  they  were  forced 
to  devour  or  squeeze  most  of  their  friends  and  servants,  to 
cheat  with  infamous  projects,  to  ransack  and  pillage  all  their 
provinces.  This  fashion  of  imperial  grandeur  is  imitated  by 
all  inferior  and  subordinate  sorts  of  it,  as  if  it  were  a  point  of 
honor.  They  must  be  cheated  of  a  third  part  of  their  estates ; 
two  other  thirds  they  must  expend  in  vanity ;  so  that  they  re- 
main debtors  for  all  the  necessary  provisions  of  life,  and  have 
no  way  to  satisfy  those  debts,  but  out  of  the  succors  and  sup- 
plies of  rapine :   "  As  riches  increase,"  says  Solomon,  "  so  do 


82  COWLEY 

the  mouths  that  devour  them."  *  The  master  mouth  has  no 
more  than  before.  The  owner,  methinks,  is  Hke  Ocnus  in  the 
fable,  who  is  perpetually  winding  a  rope  of  hay,  and  an  ass 
at  the  end  perpetually  eating  it. 

Out  of  these  inconveniences  arises  naturally  one  more,  which 
is,  that  no  greatness  can  be  satisfied  or  contented  with  itself: 
still,  if  it  could  mount  up  a  little  higher,  it  would  be  happy ;  if 
it  could  gain  but  that  point,  it  would  obtain  all  its  desires ;  but 
yet  at  last,  when  it  is  got  up  to  the  very  top  of  the  Peak  of 
Teneriffe,  it  is  in  very  great  danger  of  breaking  its  neck  down- 
wards, but  in  no  possibility  of  ascending  upwards  into  the  seat 
of  tranquillity  above  the  moon.  The  first  ambitious  men  in 
the  world,  the  old  giants,  are  said  to  have  made  an  heroical 
attempt  of  scaling  heaven  in  despite  of  the  gods ;  and  they  cast 
Ossa  upon  Olympus,  and  Pelion  upon  Ossa :  two  or  three 
mountains  more,  they  thought,  would  have  done  their  business ; 
but  the  thunder  spoilt  all  the  work,  when  they  were  come  up  to 
the  third  story. 

And  \what  a  noble  plot  was  crossed! 
And  what  a  brave  design  was  lost! 

A  famous  person  of  their  offspring,  the  late  giant  of  our 
nation,  when,  from  the  condition  of  a  very  inconsiderable  cap- 
tain, he  made  himself  lieutenant-general  of  an  army  of  little 
Titans,  which  was  his  first  mountain,  and  afterwards  general, 
which  was  his  second,  and  after  that,  absolute  tyrant  of  three 
kingdoms,  which  was  the  third,  and  almost  touched  the  heaven 
which  he  affected,  is  believed  to  have  died  with  grief  and  dis- 
content, because  he  could  not  attain  to  the  honest  name  of  a 
king,  and  the  old  formality  of  a  crown,  though  he  had  before 
exceeded  the  power  by  a  wicked  usurpation.  If  he  could  have 
compassed  that,  he  would  perhaps  have  wanted  something  else 
that  is  necessary  to  felicity,  and  pined  away  for  the  want  of  the 
title  of  an  emperor  or  a  god.  The  reason  of  this  is,  that  great- 
ness has  no  reality  in  nature,  but  is  a  creature  of  the  fancy,  a 
notion  that  consists  only  in  relation  and  comparison :  it  is  in- 
deed an  idol ;  but  St.  Paul  teaches  us  "  that  an  idol  is  worth 
nothing  in  the  world."  There  is,  in  truth,  no  rising  or  meridian 
of  the  sun,  but  only  in  respect  to  several  places:   there  is  no 

*  Eccles.  V.  11. 


OF   GREATNESS  83 

right  or  left,  no  upper  hand,  in  nature ;  everything  is  little,  and 
everything  is  great,  according  as  it  is  diversely  compared. 
There  may  be  perhaps  some  village  in  Scotland  or  Ireland, 
where  I  might  be  a  great  man ;  and  in  that  case  I  should  be  like 
Caesar  (you  would  wonder  how  Csesar  and  I  should  be  like  one 
another  in  anything)  ;  and  choose  rather  to  be  the  first  man 
of  the  village,  than  second  at  Rome.  Our  country  is  called  Great 
Britainy,  in  regard  only  of  a  lesser  of  the  same  name ;  it  would 
be  but  a  ridiculous  epithet  for  it,  when  we  consider  it  together 
with  the  Kingdom  of  China.  That,  too,  is  but  a  pitiful  rood  of 
ground,  in  comparison  of  the  whole  earth  besides:  and  this 
whole  globe  of  earth,  which  we  account  so  immense  a  body,  is 
but  one  point  or  atom  in  relation  to  those  numberless  worlds 
that  are  scattered  up  and  down  in  the  infinite  space  of  the  sky 
which  we  behold. 


OF  MYSELF 

IT  is  a  hard  and  nice  subject  for  a  man  to  write  of  himself ;  * 
it  grates  his  own  heart  to  say  anything  of  disparagement 
and  the  reader's  ears  to  hear  anything  of  praise  from 
him.  There  is  no  danger  from  me  of  offending  him  in  this 
kind;  neither  my  mind,  nor  my  body,  nor  my  fortune  allow 
me  any  materials  for  that  vanity.  It  is  sufficient  for  my  own 
contentment  that  they  have  preserved  me  from  being  scandal- 
ous, or  remarkable  on  the  defective  side.  But  besides  that,  I 
shall  here  speak  of  myself  only  in  relation  to  the  subject  of 
these  precedent  discourses,-  and  shall  be  likelier  thereby  to  fall 
into  the  contempt  than  rise  up  to  the  estimation  of  most  peo- 
ple. As  far  as  my  memory  can  return  back  into  my  past  life, 
before  I  knew  or  was  capable  of  guessing  what  the  world,  or 
glories,  or  business  of  it  were,  the  natural  affections  of  my 
soul  gave  me  a  secret  bent  of  aversion  from  them,  as  some 
plants  are  said  to  turn  away  from  others,  by  an  antipathy  im- 
perceptible to  themselves  and  inscrutable  to  man's  understand- 
ing. Even  when  I  was  a  very  young  boy  at  school,®  instead 
of  running  about  on  holidays  and  playing  with  my  fellows,  I 
was  wont  to  steal  from  them  and  walk  into  the  fields,  either 
alone  with  a  book,  or  with  some  one  companion,  if  I  could  find 
any  of  the  same  temper.  I  was  then,  too,  so  much  an  enemy 
to  all  constraint,  that  my  masters  could  never  prevail  on  me, 
by  any  persuasions  or  encouragements,  to  learn  without  book 
the  common  rules  of  grammar,  in  which  they  dispensed  with 
me  alone,  because  they  found  I  made  a  shift  to  do  the  usual 
exercise  out  of  my  own  reading  and  observation.  That  I  was 
then  of  the  same  mind  as  I  am  now  (which  I  confess  I  wonder 

1  C/.  "  Spectator,"  No.  562,  where  Ad-  eral    Discourses   by   way   of    Essays    in 

dison    discourses    on    "  Egotism,"    and  Prose  and  Verse."                .            c,  ,      , 

misquotes  this  sentence  from  Cowley.  ^  Cowley  entered  Westminster  School 

" "  Of   Myself  "   is  the  last   of  eleven  when  abotrt  ten  years  old.    In   1636  he 

essays  comprised  under  the  title  "  Sev-  became   a    scholar   of  Trinity    College, 


Cambridge. 


85 


S6  COWLEY 

at  myself)  may  appear  by  the  latter  end  of  an  ode  *  which  I 
made  when  I  was  but  thirteen  years  old,  and  which  was  then 
printed  with  many  other  verses.  The  beginning  of  it  is  boyish, 
but  of  this  part  which  I  here  set  down,  if  a  very  little  were 
corrected,  I  should  hardly  now  be  much  ashamed. 

IX 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honor  I  would  have, 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone. 
The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known. 

Rumor  can  ope  the  grave ; 
Acquaintance  I  would  have,  but  when  't  depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice  of  friends. 

X 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light. 
And  sleep,  as  undisturbed  as  death,  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage,  more 
Than  palace,  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With  Nature's  hand,  not  Art's ;  and  pleasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

XI 

Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading  space. 
For  he  that  runs  it  well,  twice  runs  his  race. 

And  in  this  true  delight, 
These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state, 
I  would  not  fear,  nor  wish  my  fate, 

But  boldly  say  each  night. 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display, 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them — I  have  lived  to-day. 

You  may  see  by  it  I  was  even  then  acquainted  with  the  poets 
(for  the  conclusion  is  taken  out  of  Horace),''  and  perhaps  it 
v/as  the  immature  and  immoderate  love  of  them  which  stamped 
first,  or  rather  engraved,  these  characters  in  me.  They  were 
like  letters  cut  into  the  bark  of  a  young  tree,  which  with  the 
tree  still  grow  proportionably.     But  how  this  love  came  to  be 

*  The  stanzas  quoted  form  the  conclu-  ^  "  Odes,"  III.  xxix.  41. 

sion    of    a    poem    entitled    "  A    Vote," 
which  appeared  in  "  Sylva  "  of  i6j6. 


OF   MYSELF  87 

produced  in  me  so  early  is  a  hard  question.  I  believe  I  can  tell 
the  particular  little  chance  that  filled  my  head  first  with  such 
chimes  of  verse  as  have  never  since  left  ringing  there.  For  I 
remember  when  I  began  to  read,  and  to  take  some  pleasure  in 
it,  there  was  wont  to  lie  in  my  mother's  parlor  (I  know  not  by 
,what  accident,  for  she  herself  never  in  her  life  read  any  book 
but  of  devotion),  but  there  was  wont  to  lie  Spenser's  works; 
this  I  happened  to  fall  upon,  and  was  infinitely  delighted  with 
the  stories  of  the  knights,  and  giants,  and  monsters,  and  brave 
houses,  which  I  found  everywhere  there  (though  my  under- 
standing had  little  to  do  with  all  this)  ;  and  by  degrees  with 
the  tinkling  of  the  rhyme  and  dance  of  the  numbers,  so  that  I 
think  I  had  read  him  all  over  before  I  was  twelve  years  old, 
and  was  thus  made  a  poet  as  irrenjediably  as  a  child  is  made  a 
eunuch.  With  these  affections  of  mind,  and  my  heart  wholly 
set  upon  letters,  I  went  to  the  university,  but  was  soon  torn 
frcm  thence  by  that  violent  public  storm  ^  which  would  suffer 
noftiing  to  stand  where  it  did,  but  rooted  up  every  plant,  even 
from  the  princely  cedars  to  me,  the  hyssop.  Yet  I  had  as  good 
fortune  as  could  have  befallen  me  in  such  a  tempest ;  for  I  was 
cast  by  it  into  the  family  of  one  of  the  best  persons,  and  into 
the  court  of  one  of  the  best  princesses  of  the  world.  Now 
though  I  was  here  engaged  in  ways  most  contrary  to  the  origi- 
nal design  of  my  life,  that  is,  into  much  company,  and  no  small 
business,  and  into  a  daily  sight  of  greatness,  both  militant  and 
triumphant,  for  that  was  the  state  then  of  the  English  and 
French  courts ;  yet  all  this  was  so  far  from  altering  my  opin- 
ion, that  it  only  added  the  confirmation  of  reason  to  that  which 
was  before  but  natural  inclination.  I  saw  plainly  all  the  paint 
of  that  kind  of  life,  the  nearer  I  came  to  it;  and  that  beauty 
which  I  did  not  fall  in  love  with  when,  for  aught  I  knew,  it  was 
real,  was  not  like  to  bewitch  or  entice  me  when  I  saw  that  it 
was  adulterate.  I  met  with  several  great  persons,  whom  I 
liked  very  well,  but  could  not  perceive  that  any  part  of  their 
greatness  was  to  be  liked  or  desired,  no  more  than  I  would  be 
glad  or  content  to  be  in  a  storm,  though  I  saw  many  ships  which 
rid  safely  and  bravely  in  it.  A  storm  would  not  agree  with  my 
stomach,  if  it  did  with  my  courage.     Though  I  was  in  a  crowd 

^  In  1643  Cowley,  as  a  Loyalist,  had  to       to  Paris,  as  secretary  to  Lord  Jermyn, 
leave  Cambridge.    A  year  after,  he  went       the  adviser  of  Queen  Henrietta  Maria. 


88  COWLEY 

of  as  good  company  as  could  be  found  anywhere,  though  I  was 
in  business  of  great  and  honorable  trust,  though  I  ate  at  the 
best  table,  and  enjoyed  the  best  conveniences  for  present  sub- 
sistence that  ought  to  be  desired  by  a  man  of  my  condition  in 
banishment  and  public  distresses,  yet  I  could  not  abstain  from 
renewing  my  old  schoolboy's  wish  in  a  copy  of  verses  to  the 
same  effect : — 

Well  then ;   I  now  do  plainly  see, 

This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree,  etc.* 

And  I  never  then  proposed  to  myself  any  other  advantage 
from  His  Majesty's  happy  restoration,  but  the  getting  into 
some  moderately  convenient  retreat  in  the  country,  which  I 
thought  in  that  case  I  might  easily  have  compassed,  as  well  as 
some  others,  with  no  greater  probabilities  or  pretences,  have 
arrived  to  extraordinary  fortunes.  But  I  had  before  written 
a  shrewd  prophecy  against  myself,  and  I  think  Apollo  inspired 
me  in  the  truth,  though  not  in  the  elegance  of  it^ : — 

Thou,  neither  great  at  court  nor  in  the  war. 

Nor  at  th'  exchange  shalt  be,  nor  at  the  wrangling  bar; 

Content  thyself  with  the  small  barren  praise, 

Which  neglected  verse  does  raise. 

She  spoke ;  and  all  my  years  to  come 

Took  their  unlucky  doom. 
Their  several  ways  of  life  let  others  chuse, 
Their  several  pleasures  let  them  use ; 
But  I  was  born  for  Love  and  for  a  Muse. 

What  Fate  what  boots  it  to  contend  ? 
Such  I  began,  such  am,  and  so  must  end. 

The  star  that  did  my  being  frame 

Was  but  a  lambent  flame. 

And  some  small  light  it  did  dispense, 

But  neither  heat  nor  influence. 
No  matter,  Cowley ;  let  proud  Fortune  see 
That  thou  canst  her  despise  no  less  than  she  does  thef 

Let  all  her  gifts  the  portion  be 
Of  folly,  lust,  and  flattery. 
Fraud,  extortion,  calumny, 

Murder,  infidelity. 

Rebellion  and  hypocrisy. 

•The  opening  lines  of  "The  Wish,"  'The  following  poem  is  from  "Des- 

one  of  the  poems  published  in  1647  un-  tiny,"    the    seventh    of    Cowley  s   fifteea 

der  the  collective  name  of  "  The  Mis-  "  Pindaric  Odes,"  published  in  1656. 
trtss." 


OF  MYSELF  89 

Do  thou  not  grieve  nor  blush  to  be, 

As  all  th'  inspired  tuneful  men, 

And  all  thy  great  forefathers  were,  from  Homer  down  to  Ben. 

However,  by  the  failing  of  the  forces  which  I  had  expected, 
I  did  not  quit  the  design  which  I  had  resolved  on ;  I  cast  my- 
self into  it  A  corps  perdu,  without  making  capitulations  or 
taking  counsel  of  fortune.  But  God  laughs  at  a  man  who  says 
to  his  soul,  "  Take  thy  ease  " :  I  met  presently  not  only  with 
many  little  encumbrances  and  impediments,  but  with  so  much 
sickness  (a  new  misfortune  to  me)  as  would  have  spoiled  the 
happiness  of  an  emperor  as  well  as  mine.  Yet  I  do  neither 
repent  nor  alter  my  course.  Non  ego  periidum  dixi  sacramen- 
turn.  Nothing  shall  separate  me  from  a  mistress  which  I  have 
loved  so  long,  and  have  now  at  last  married,  though  she  neither 
has  brought  me  a  rich  portion,  nor  lived  yet  so  quietly  with 
me  as  I  hoped  from  her. 

— Nee  vos,  dulcissinta  mundi 


Nomina,  vos  Musce,  libertas,  otia,  libri, 
Hortique  sylvceque  anima  remanente  reliquavn. 

Nor  by  me  e'er  shall  you, 
You  of  all  names  the  sweetest,  and  the  best, 
You  Muses,  books,  and  liberty,  and  rest; 
You  gardens,  fields,  and  woods  forsaken  be. 
As  long  as  life  itself  forsakes  not  me. 

But  this  is  a  very  petty  ejaculation.  Because  I  have  con- 
cluded all  the  other  chapters  with  a  copy  of  verses,  I  will  main- 
tain the  humor  to  the  last. 

Martial,  Lib.  10,  Ep.  47 

Vitam  quce  faciunt  beatiorem,  etc. 

Since,  dearest  friend,  'tis  your  desire  to  see 

A  true  receipt  of  happiness  from  me ; 

These  are  the  chief  ingredients,  if  not  all : 

Take  an  estate  neither  too  great  nor  small, 

Which  quantum  suMcit  the  doctors  call ; 

Let  this  estate  from  parents'  care  descend: 

The  getting  it  too  much  of  life  does  spend. 

Take  such  a  ground,  whose  gratitude  may  bt 

A  fair  encouragement  for  industry.  ^ „  . 


9©  COWLEY 

Let  constant  fires  the  winter's  fury  tame, 

And  let  thy  kitchens  be  a  vestal  flame. 

Thee  to  the  town  let  never  suit  at  law, 

And  rarely,  very  rarely,  business  draw. 

Thy  active  mind  in  equal  temper  keep, 

In  undisturbed  peace,  yet  not  in  sleep. 

Let  exercise  a  vigorous  health  maintain, 

Without  which  all  the  composition's  vain. 

In  the  same  weight  prudence  and  innocence  take, 

Atta  *  of  each  does  the  just  mixture  make. 

But  a  few  friendships  wear,  and  let  them  be 

By  Nature  and  by  Fortune  fit  for  thee. 

*  An  equal  quantity. 


AGAINST    EXCESSIVE    GRIEF 


BY 


SIR    WILLIAM    TEMPLE 


SIR   WILLIAM   TEMPLE 
1628 — 1699 

Sir  William  Temple,  the  son  of  Sir  John  Temple,  Master  of  the 
Rolls  in  Ireland,  was  born  in  1628,  and  studied  at  Cambridge,  under 
the  learned  Dr.  Hammond,  his  maternal  uncle.  He  began  to  travel  in 
his  twenty-fifth  year,  and  spent  six  years  in  France,  Holland,  Flanders, 
and  Germany.  In  1655  he  was  engaged  in  promoting  an  alliance  be- 
tween England,  Sweden,  and  Holland.  Becoming  resident  minister  at 
the  Hague,  he  was  useful  in  promoting  the  marriage  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange  with  Mary,  eldest  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  York,  which  took 
place  in  1677.  On  refusing  to  sanction  an  intended  breach  with  Hol- 
land, he  was  recalled  from  his  post  in  1671,  and  formally  dismissed 
from  his  ambassador's  office,  when  he  retired  into  private  life  at  Sheen. 
Here  he  wrote  an  "  Essay  on  Government "  and  part  of  his  "  Mis- 
cellanies." He  was  again  ambassador  to  the  States-General  in  1674; 
and  in  1679  he  was  appointed  Secretary  of  State,  but  resigned  in  the 
following  year.  He  now  retired  to  his  country-seat  in  Surrey,  where 
he  was  often  visited  by  Charles  II,  James  II,  and  William  III.  As  a 
statesman  and  man  of  the  world,  Temple  is  said  to  have  been  wanting 
in  unselfish  devotion,  but  in  private  he  was  respectable  and  decorous. 
He  died  at  Moor  Park  in  January,   1699. 

Dr.  Johnson  once  made  the  remark  that  "  Sir  William  Temple  was 
the  first  writer  who  gave  cadence  to  English  prose;  before  his  time 
they  were  careless  of  arrangement."  This  may  be  taken  as  only 
comparatively  true. 

Sir  William  Temple  has  a  place  of  his  own  among  English  writers, 
and  will  be  studied  for  the  purity  and  elegance  of  his  English  when 
greater  thinkers,  whose  forms  of  expression  are  uncouth,  are  neglected. 
He  is  master  of  a  style  which  is  seen  to  most  advantage  in  memoirs 
and  essays  of  the  lighter  kind.  This  style  he  may  almost  be  said  to 
have  originated.  He  seldom  fails  to  gratify  his  reader,  and  he  has 
occasional  passages  of  great  splendor  and  dignity.  Sir  James  Mackin- 
tosh says  of  Temple,  "  in  an  age  of  extremes  he  was  attached  to 
liberty,  and  yet  averse  from  endangering  the  public  quiet."  It  is  not 
altogether  fanciful  to  say  that  the  political  and  domestic  character  of 
Temple  is  reflected  in  his  "  Letters,"  "  Essays,"  and  "  Memoirs."  In 
an  evil  hour  for  his  reputation  as  a  critic,  lie  lavished  praise  on  the 
so-called  "  Letters  of  Philaris,"  and  provoked  a  controversy  forever 
memorable  in  literary  annals.  He  was  the  patron  of  Swift,  who  has 
hardly  done  justice  to  his  memory. 


93 


AGAINST  EXCESSIVE  GRIEF 

THE  honor  I  received  by  a  letter  from  your  ladyship  *  was 
too  great  and  too  sensible  not  to  be  acknowledged ;  but 
yet  I  doubted  whether  that  occasion  could  bear  me  out 
in  the  confidence  of  giving  your  ladyship  any  further  troubles 
of  this  kind,  without  as  good  an  errand  as  my  last.  This  I  have 
reckoned  upon  a  good  while  by  another  visit  my  sister  and  I  had 
designed  to  my  Lord  Capell.  How  we  came  to  have  deferred  it 
so  long,  I  think  we  are  neither  of  us  like  to  tell  you  at  this 
distance,  though  we  make  ourselves  believe  it  could  not  be 
helped.  Your  ladyship  at  least  has  had  the  advantage  of  being 
thereby  excused  some  time  from  this  trouble,  which  I  could 
no  longer  forbear,  upon  the  sensible  wounds  that  have  so  often 
of  late  been  given  your  friends  here  by  such  desperate  expres- 
sions in  several  of  your  letters  concerning  your  humor,  your 
health,  and  your  life ;  in  all  which,  if  they  are  your  friends,  you 
must  allow  them  to  be  extremely  concerned.  Perhaps  none 
can  be  at  heart  more  partial  than  I  am  to  whatever  touches  your 
ladyship,  nor  more  inclined  to  defend  you  upon  this  very  occa- 
sion, how  unjust  and  unkind  soever  you  are  to  yourself.  But 
when  you  go  about  to  throw  away  your  health,  or  your  life,  so 
great  a  remainder  of  your  own  family,  and  so  great  hopes  of  that 
into  which  you  are  entered,  and  all  by  a  desperate  melancholy, 
upon  an  accident  past  remedy,  and  to  which  all  mortal  race  is 
perpetually  subject.  For  God's  sake,  madam,  give  me  leave  to 
tell  you,  that  what  you  do  is  not  at  all  agreeable  either  with  so 
good  a  Christian,  or  so  reasonable  and  so  great  a  person  as  your 
ladyship  appears  to  the  world  in  all  other  lights. 

I  know  no  duty  in  religion  more  generally  agreed  on,  nor 
more  justly  required  by  God  Almighty,  than  a  perfect  submis- 
sion to  His  will  in  all  things ;  nor  do  I  think  any  disposition  of 

1  Addressed  to  the  Countess  of  Essex,  January  29,  1674,  on  the  death  of  her 
only  daughter. 

93 


9A  TEMPLE 

mind  can  either  please  Him  more,  or  become  us  better,  than  that 
of  being  satisfied  with  all  He  gives,  and  contented  with  all  He 
takes  away.  None  I  am  sure  can  be  of  more  honor  to  God,  nor 
of  more  ease  to  ourselves:  for  if  we  consider  Him  as  our 
Maker,  we  cannot  contend  with  Him;  if  as  our  Father,  we 
ought  not  to  distrust  Him ;  so  that  we  may  be  confident,  what- 
ever He  does  is  intended  for  our  good,  and  whatever  happens 
that  we  interpret  otherwise,  yet  we  can  get  nothing  by  repining, 
nor  save  anything  by  resisting. 

But  if  it  were  fit  for  us  to  reason  with  God  Almighty,  and 
your  ladyship's  loss  be  acknowledged  as  great  as  it  could  have 
been  to  anyone  alive ;  yet  I  doubt,  you  would  have  but  ill  grace 
to  complain  at  the  rate  you  have  done,  or  rather  as  you  do: 
for  the  first  motions  or  passions,  how  violent  soever,  may  be 
pardoned;  and  it  is  only  the  course  of  them  which  makes  them 
inexcusable.  In  this  world,  madam,  there  is  nothing  perfectly 
good,  and  whatever  is  called  so,  is  but  either  comparatively 
with  other  things  of  its  kind,  or  else  with  the  evil  that  is  min- 
gled in  its  composition ;  so  he  is  a  good  man  that  is  better  than 
men  commonly  are,  or  in  whom  the  good  qualities  are  more 
than  the  bad:  so  in  the  course  of  life,  his  condition  is  esteemed 
good,  which  is  better  than  that  of  most  other  men,  or  wherein 
the  good  circumstances  are  more  than  the  ill.  By  this  meas- 
ure, I  doubt,  madam,  your  complaints  ought  to  be  turned  into 
acknowledgments,  and  your  friends  would  have  cause  to  re- 
joice rather  than  condole  with  you ;  for  the  goods  or  blessings 
of  life  are  usually  esteemed  to  be  birth,  health,  beauty,  friends, 
children,  honor,  riches.  Now  when  your  ladyship  has  fairly 
considered  how  God  Almighty  has  dealt  with  you  in  what  He 
has  given  you  of  all  these,  you  may  be  left  to  judge  yourself 
how  you  have  dealt  with  Him  in  your  complaints  for  what  He 
has  taken  away.  But  if  you  look  about  you,  and  consider  other 
lives  as  well  as  your  own,  and  what  your  lot  is  in  comparison 
with  those  that  have  been  drawn  in  the  circle  of  your  knowl- 
edge; if  you  think  how  few  are  born  with  honor,  how  many 
die  without  name  or  children,  how  little  beauty  we  see,  how 
few  friends  we  hear  of,  how  many  diseases,  and  how  much 
poverty  there  is  in  the  world,  you  will  fall  down  upon  your 
knees,  and  instead  of  repining  at  one  affliction,  will  admire  so 
many  blessings  as  you  have  received  at  the  hand  of  God, 


AGAINST  EXCESSIVE  GRIEF  95 

To  put  your  ladyship  in  mind  of  what  you  are,  and  the  ad- 
vantages you  have  in  all  these  points,  would  look  like  a  design 
to  flatter  you :  but  this  I  may  say,  that  we  will  pity  you  as  much 
as  you  please,  if  you  will  tell  us  who  they  are  that  you  think 
upon  all  circumstances  you  have  reason  to  envy.  Now  if  I 
had  a  master  that  gave  me  all  I  could  ask,  but  thought  fit  to 
take  one  thing  from  me  again,  either  because  I  used  it  ill,  or 
gave  myself  so  much  over  to  it,  as  to  neglect  what  I  owed 
either  to  him  or  the  rest  of  the  world ;  or  perhaps  because  he 
would  show  his  power,  and  put  me  in  mind  from  whom  I  held 
all  the  rest ;  would  you  think  I  had  much  reason  to  complain 
of  hard  usage,  and  never  to  remember  any  more  what  was 
left  me,  never  to  forget  what  was  taken  away  ? 

It  is  true  you  have  lost  a  child,  and  therein  all  that  could  be 
lost  in  a  child  of  that  age;  but  you  have  kept  one  child,  and 
are  likely  to  do  so  long;  you  have  the  assurance  of  another, 
and  the  hopes  of  many  more.  You  have  kept  a  husband  great 
in  employment,  and  in  fortune,  and  (which  is  more)  in  the 
esteem  of  good  men.  You  have  kept  your  beauty  and  your 
health,  unless  you  have  destroyed  them  yourself,  or  discour- 
aged them  to  stay  with  you  by  using  them  ill.  You  have  friends 
that  are  as  kind  to  you  as  you  can  wish  or  as  you  can  give 
them  leave  to  be  by  their  fears  of  losing  you,  and  being  there- 
by so  much  the  unhappier,  the  kinder  they  are  to  you.  But 
you  have  honor  and  esteem  from  all  that  know  you ;  or  if  ever 
it  fails  in  any  degree,  it  is  only  upon  that  point  of  your  seem- 
ing to  be  fallen  out  with  God  and  the  whole  world,  and  neither 
to  care  for  yourself,  or  anything  else,  after  what  you  have  lost. 

You  will  say  perhaps  that  one  thing  was  all  to  you,  and  your 
fondness  of  it  made  you  indififerent  to  everything  else.  But 
this,  I  doubt,  will  be  so  far  from  justifying  you,  that  it  will 
prove  to  be  your  fault  as  well  as  your  misfortune.  God  Al- 
mighty gave  you  all  the  blessings  of  life,  and  you  set  your 
heart  wholly  upon  one,  and  despise  or  undervalue  all  the  rest ; 
is  this  His  fault  or  yours?  Nay,  is  it  not  to  be  very  unthank- 
ful to  Heaven,  as  well  as  very  scornful  to  the  rest  of  the  world ; 
is  it  not  to  say,  because  you  have  lost  one  thing  God  hath  given 
you,  you  thank  Him  for  nothing  He  has  left,  and  care  not 
what  He  takes  away?  Is  it  not  to  say,  since  that  one  thing  is 
gone  out  of  the  world,  there  is  nothing  left  in  it  which  you 


96  TEMPLE 

think  can  deserve  your  kindness  or  esteem?  A  friend  makes 
me  a  feast,  and  sets  all  before  me  that  his  care  or  kindness 
could  provide ;  but  I  set  my  heart  upon  one  dish  alone,  and  if 
that  happen  to  be  thrown  down,  I  scorn  all  the  rest ;  and  though 
he  sends  for  another  of  the  same,  yet  I  rise  from  the  table  in 
a  rage,  and  say  my  friend  is  my  enemy,  and  has  done  me  the 
greatest  wrong  in  the  world ;  have  I  reason,  madam,  or  good 
grace  in  what  I  do?  Or  would  it  become  me  better  to  eat 
of  the  rest  that  is  before  me,  and  think  no  more  of  what  had 
happened,  and  could  not  be  remedied? 

All  the  precepts  of  Christianity  agree  to  teach  and  command 
us  to  moderate  our  passions,  to  temper  our  affections  towards 
all  things  below ;  to  be  thankful  for  the  possession,  and  patient 
under  the  loss  whenever  He  that  gave  it  shall  see  fit  to  take 
away.  Your  extreme  fondness  was  perhaps  as  displeasing  to 
God  before,  as  now  your  extreme  affliction ;  and  your  loss 
may  have  been  a  punishment  for  your  faults  in  the  manner  of 
enjoying  what  you  had.  It  is  at  least  pious  to  ascribe  all  the 
ill  that  befalls  us  to  our  own  demerits  rather  than  to  injustice 
in  God;  and  becomes  us  better  to  adore  all  the  issues  of  His 
providence  in  the  effects,  than  inquire  into  the  causes.  For 
submission  is  the  only  way  of  reasoning  between  a  creature 
and  its  Maker;  and  contentment  in  His  will  is  the  greatest 
duty  we  can  pretend  to,  and  the  best  remedy  we  can  apply  to 
all  our  misfortunes. 

But,  madam,  though  religion  were  no  party  in  your  case, 
and  that  for  so  violent  and  injurious  a  grief  you  had  nothing 
to  answer  to  God,  but  only  to  the  world  and  yourself;  yet  I 
very  much  doubt  how  you  would  be  acquitted.  We  bring  into 
the  world  with  us  a  poor,  needy,  uncertain  life,  short  at  the 
longest,  and  unquiet  at  the  best ;  all  the  imaginations  of  the 
witty  and  the  wise  have  been  perpetually  busied  to  find  out 
the  ways  how  to  revive  it  with  pleasures,  or  relieve  it  with  di- 
versions ;  how  to  compose  it  with  ease,  and  settle  it  with  safety. 
To  some  of  these  ends  have  been  employed  the  institutions  of 
lawgivers,  the  reasonings  of  philosophers,  the  inventions  of 
poets,  the  pains  of  laboring,  and  the  extravagances  of  volup- 
tuous men.  All  the  world  is  perpetually  at  work  about  noth- 
ing else,  but  only  that  our  poor  mortal  lives  should  pass  the 
easier  and  happier  for  that  little  time  we  possess  them,  or  else 


AGAINST  EXCESSIVE  GRIEF  97 

end  the  better  when  we  lose  them.  Upon  this  occasion  riches 
came  to  be  coveted,  honors  to  be  esteemed,  friendship  and  love 
to  be  pursued,  and  virtues  themselves  to  be  admired  in  the 
world.  Now,  madam,  is  it  not  to  bid  defiance  to  all  man- 
kind, to  condemn  their  universal  opinions  and  designs,  if  in- 
stead of  passing  your  life  as  well  and  easily,  you  resolve  to 
pass  it  as  ill  and  as  miserably  as  you  can?  You  grow  insen- 
sible to  the  conveniences  of  riches,  the  delights  of  honor  and 
praise,  the  charms  of  kindness  or  friendship,  nay,  to  the  ob- 
servance or  applause  of  virtues  themselves ;  for  who  can  you 
expect,  in  these  excesses  of  passions,  will  allow  you  to  show 
either  temperance  or  fortitude,  to  be  either  prudent  or  just? 
And  for  your  friends,  I  suppose,  you  reckon  upon  losing  their 
kindness,  when  you  have  sufficiently  convinced  them,  they  can 
never  hope  for  any  of  yours,  since  you  have  none  left  for  your- 
self or  anything  else.  You  declare  upon  all  occasions  you  are 
incapable  of  receiving  any  comfort  or  pleasure  in  anything 
that  is  left  in  this  world ;  and  I  assure  you,  madam,  none  can 
ever  love  you,  that  can  have  no  hopes  ever  to  please  you. 

Among  the  several  inquiries  and  endeavors  after  the  happi- 
ness of  life,  the  sensual  men  agree  in  pursuit  of  every  pleasure 
they  can  start,  without  regarding  the  pains  of  the  chase,  the 
weariness  when  it  ends,  or  how  little  the  quarry  is  worth. 
The  busy  and  ambitious  fall  into  the  more  lasting  pursuits  of 
power  and  riches;  the  speculative  men  prefer  tranquillity  of 
mind,  before  the  different  motions  of  passion  and  appetite,  or 
the  common  successions  of  desire  and  satiety,  of  pleasure  and 
pain :  but  this  may  seem  too  dull  a  principle  for  the  happiness 
of  life,  which  is  ever  in  motion :  and  passions  are  perhaps  the 
stings,  without  which  they  say  no  honey  is  made ;  yet  I  think 
all  sorts  of  men  have  ever  agreed,  they  ought  to  be  our  ser- 
vants, and  not  our  masters ;  to  give  us  some  agitation  for  en- 
tertainment or  exercise,  but  never  to  throw  our  reason  out  of 
its  seat.  Perhaps  I  would  not  always  sit  still,  or  would  be 
sometimes  on  horseback;  but  I  would  never  ride  a  horse  that 
galls  my  flesh,  or  shakes  my  bones,  or  that  runs  away  with  me 
as  he  pleases,  so  as  I  can  neither  stop  at  a  river  or  precipice. 
Better  no  passions  at  all,  than  have  them  too  violent ;  or  such 
alone,  as  instead  of  heightening  our  pleasures,  afford  us  noth- 
ing but  vexation  and  pain. 


gS  TEMPLE 

In  all  such  losses  as  your  ladyship's  has  been,  there  Is  some- 
thing that  common  nature  cannot  be  denied,  there  is  a  great 
deal  that  good-nature  may  be  allowed ;  but  all  excessive  and 
outrageous  grief  or  lamentation  for  the  dead,  was  accounted 
among  the  ancient  Christians,  to  have  something  of  heathen- 
ish ;  and  among  the  civil  nations  of  old,  to  have  something  of 
barbarous;  and  therefore  it  has  been  the  care  of  the  first  to 
moderate  it  by  their  precepts,  and  the  latter  to  restrain  it  by 
their  law.  The  longest  time  that  has  been  allowed  to  the  forms 
of  mourning  by  the  custom  of  any  country,  and  in  any  rela- 
tion, has  been  but  that  of  a  year,  in  which  space  the  body  is 
commonly  supposed  to  be  mouldered  away  to  earth,  and  to 
retain  no  more  figure  of  what  it  was ;  but  this  has  been  given 
only  to  the  loss  of  parents,  of  husband,  or  wife.  On  the  other 
side,  to  children  under  age,  nothing  has  been  allowed ;  and 
I  suppose  with  particular  reason  (the  common  ground  of  all 
general  customs),  perhaps  because  they  die  in  innocence,  and 
without  having  tasted  the  miseries  of  life,  so  as  we  are  sure 
they  are  well  when  they  leave  us,  and  escape  much  ill  that 
would  in  all  appearance  have  befallen  them  if  they  had  stayed 
longer  with  us.  Besides,  a  parent  may  have  twenty  children, 
and  so  his  mourning  may  run  through  all  the  best  of  his  life, 
if  his  losses  are  frequent  of  that  kind ;  and  our  kindness  to 
children  so  young,  is  taken  to  proceed  from  common  opinions, 
or  fond  imaginations,  not  friendship  or  esteem ;  and  to  be 
grounded  upon  entertainment,  rather  than  use  in  the  many 
offices  of  life :  nor  would  it  pass  from  any  person  besides  your 
ladyship,  to  say  you  lost  a  companion  and  a  friend  at  nine 
years  old,  though  you  lost  one  indeed,  who  gave  the  fairest 
hopes  that  could  be  of  being  both  in  time,  and  everything  else 
that  was  estimable  and  good.  But  yet,  that  itself  God  only 
knows,  considering  the  changes  of  humor  and  disposition, 
which  are  as  great  as  those  of  feature  and  shape  the  first  six- 
teen years  of  our  lives,  considering  the  chances  of  time,  the 
infection  of  company,  the  snares  of  the  world,  and  the  passions 
of  youth,  so  that  the  most  excellent  and  agreeable  creature  of 
that  tender  age,  and  that  seemed  born  under  the  happiest  stars, 
might  by  the  course  of  years  and  accidents,  come  to  be  the 
most  miserable  herself,  and  more  trouble  to  her  friends  by 
living  long,  than  she  could  have  been  by  dying  young. 


AGAINST   EXCESSIVE   GRIEF  99 

Yet  after  all,  madam,  I  think  your  loss  so  great,  and  some 
measure  of  your  grief  so  deserved,  that  would  all  your  pas- 
sionate complaints,  all  the  anguish  of  your  heart  do  anything 
to  retrieve  it;  could  tears  water  the  lovely  plant,  so  as  to 
make  it  grow  again  after  once  it  is  cut  down;  would  sighs 
furnish  new  breath,  or  could  it  draw  life  and  spirits  from  the 
wasting  of  yours — I  am  sure  your  friends  would  be  so  far 
from  accusing  your  passion,  that  they  would  encourage  it  as 
much,  and  share  it  as  deep  as  they  could.  But,  alas !  the 
eternal  laws  of  the  creation  extinguish  all  such  hopes,  forbid 
all  such  designs;  nature  gives  us  many  children  and  friends 
to  take  them  away,  but  takes  none  away  to  give  them  us  again. 
And  this  makes  the  excesses  of  grief  to  have  been  so  universally 
condemned,  as  a  thing  unnatural,  because  so  much  in  vain, 
whereas  nature,  they  say,  does  nothing  in  vain ;  as  a  thing  so 
unreasonable,  because  so  contrary  to  our  own  designs  ;  for  we  all 
design  to  be  well  and  at  ease,  and  by  grief  we  make  ourselves  ill 
of  imaginary  wounds,  and  raise  ourselves  troubles  most  prop- 
erly out  of  the  dust,  whilst  our  ravings  and  complaints  are  but 
like  arrows  shot  up  into  the  air,  at  no  mark,  and  so  to  no  pur- 
pose, but  only  to  fall  back  upon  our  heads,  and  destroy  our- 
selves, instead  of  recovering  or  revenging  our  friends. 

Perhaps,  madam,  you  will  say  this  is  your  design,  or  if  not, 
your  desire;  but  I  hope  you  are  not  yet  so  far  gone,  or  so 
desperately  bent.  Your  ladyship  knows  very  well  your  life  is 
not  your  own,  but  His  that  lent  it  to  you  to  manage  and  pre- 
serve the  best  you  could,  and  not  to  throw  it  away  as  if  it 
came  from  some  common  hand.  It  belongs  in  a  great  meas- 
ure to  your  country  and  your  family ;  and  therefore,  by  all 
human  laws,  as  well  as  divine,  self-murder  has  ever  been  agreed 
on  as  the  greatest  crime,  and  is  punished  here  with  the  utmost 
shame,  which  is  all  that  can  be  inflicted  upon  the  dead.  But 
is  the  crime  much  less  to  kill  ourselves  by  a  slow  poison  than 
by  a  sudden  wound?  Now,  if  we  do  it,  and  know  we  do  it, 
by  a  long  and  a  continual  grief,  can  we  think  ourselves  inno- 
cent? What  great  difference  is  there  if  we  break  our  hearts 
or  consume  them;  if  we  pierce  them,  or  bruise  them;  since 
all  determines  in  the  same  death,  as  all  arises  from  the  same 
despair?  But  what  if  it  goes  not  so  far?  It  is  not,  indeed, 
so  bad  as  mi^ht  be,  but  that  does  not  excuse  it  from  being  very 


loo  TEMPLE 

ill.  Though  I  do  not  kill  my  neighbor,  is  it  no  hurt  to  wound 
him,  or  to  spoil  him  of  the  conveniences  of  life?  The  greatest 
crime  is  for  a  man  to  kill  himself ;  is  it  a  small  one  to  wound 
himself  by  anguish  of  heart,  by  grief,  or  despair,  to  ruin  his 
health,  to  shorten  his  age,  to  deprive  himself  of  all  the  pleas- 
ures, or  eases,  or  enjoyments  of  life? 

Next  to  the  mischiefs  we  do  ourselves  are  those  we  do  our 
children  and  our  friends,  as  those  who  deserve  best  of  us,  or 
at  least  deserve  no  ill.  The  child  you  carry  about  you,  what 
has  that  done  that  you  should  endeavor  to  deprive  it  of  life 
almost  as  soon  as  you  bestow  it ;  or  if,  at  the  best,  you  suffer 
it  to  live  to  be  born,  yet  by  your  ill  usage  of  yourself,  should 
so  much  impair  the  strength  of  its  body  and  health,  and  per- 
haps the  very  temper  of  its  mind,  by  giving  it  such  an  infusion 
of  melancholy,  as  may  serve  to  discolor  the  objects  and  dis- 
relish the  accidents  it  may  meet  with  in  the  common  train  of 
life?  But  this  is  one  you  are  not  yet  acquainted  with.  What 
will  you  say  to  another  you  are?  Were  it  a  small  injury  to 
my  Lord  Capell,  to  deprive  him  of  a  mother,  from  whose 
prudence  and  kindness  he  may  justly  expect  the  cares  of  his 
health  and  education,  the  forming  of  his  body,  and  the  culti- 
vating of  his  mind ;  the  seeds  of  honor  and  virtue,  and  thereby 
the  true  principles  of  a  happy  liie.  How  has  my  Lord  of 
Essex  deserved  that  you  should  go  about  to  lose  him  a  wife 
he  loves  with  so  much  passion,  and,  which  is  more,  with  so 
much  reason ;  so  great  an  honor  and  support  to  his  family, 
so  great  a  hope  to  his  fortune,  and  comfort  to  his  life?  Are 
there  so  many  left  of  your  own  great  family  that  you  should 
desire  in  a  manner  wholly  to  reduce  it  by  suffering  the  greatest 
and  almost  last  branch  of  it  to  wither  away  before  its  time? 
or  is  your  country  in  this  age  so  stored  with  great  persons  that 
you  should  envy  it  those  we  may  justly  expect  from  so  noble 
a  race? 

Whilst  I  had  any  hopes  your  tears  would  ease  you,  or  that 
your  grief  would  consume  itself  by  liberty  and  time,  your 
ladyship  knows  very  well  I  never  once  accused  it,  nor  ever 
increased  it,  like  many  others,  by  the  common  formal  ways  of 
assuaging  it,  and  this,  I  am  sure,  is  the  first  office  of  this  kind 
I  ever  went  about  to  perform  otherwise  than  in  the  most  or- 
dinary forms.     I  was  in  the  hope  what  was  so  violent  could 


AGAINST   EXCESSIVE   GRIEF  loi 

not  be  so  long ;  but  when  I  observed  it  to  grow  stronger  with 
age,  and  increase  Hke  a  stream  the  farther  it  ran;  when  I 
saw  it  draw  out  to  so  many  unhappy  consequences,  and  threaten 
no  less  than  your  child,  your  health,  and  your  life,  I  could  no 
longer  forbear  this  endeavor,  nor  end  it  without  begging  of 
your  ladyship,  for  God's  sake  and  for  your  own,  for  your 
children's  and  your  friends',  for  your  country's  and  your  fam- 
ily's, that  you  would  no  longer  abandon  yourself  to  so  dis- 
consolate a  passion,  but  that  you  would  at  length  awaken  your 
piety,  give  way  to  your  prudence,  or  at  least  rouse  up  the  in- 
vincible spirit  of  the  Percies,  that  never  yet  shrank  at  any 
disaster ;  that  you  would  sometimes  remember  the  great  hon- 
ors and  fortunes  of  your  family,  not  always  the  losses ;  cherish 
those  veins  of  good  humor  that  are  sometimes  so  natural  to 
you,  and  sear  up  those  of  ill  that  would  make  you  so  unnatural 
to  your  children  and  to  yourself.  But  above  all,  that  you  would 
enter  upon  the  cares  of  your  health  and  your  life,  for  your 
friends'  sake  at  least,  if  not  for  your  own. 


OF    HEROIC    PLAYS 


BY 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


JOHN    DRYDEN 

1631 — 1700 

John  Dryden  was  born  in  1631  at  Aldwinkle  in  Northamptonshire. 
He  received  the  rudiments  of  education  at  Tichmarsh  in  his  native 
county.  He  was  afterwards  admitted  King's  scholar  at  Westminster, 
and  under  the  celebrated  Dr.  Busby  made  rapid  progress  in  classical 
learning.  From  Westminster  he  was  elected,  1650,  Scholar  of  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge.  He  took  his  degree  in  1654,  and  three  years  later 
finally  left  his  university  for  London,  where  he  at  once  entered  on  the 
career  of  a  literary  man,  which  he  pursued  to  the  very  end  of  his  life. 
He  occupied  in  his  relations  with  men  of  genius,  of  rank,  and  political 
influence  as  high  a  station  in  the  very  foremost  circles  as  literary  repu- 
tation could  gain  for  its  owner.  Dryden  attached  himself  to  the  court 
party  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  H  and  James  II,  in  the  latter  of  which 
he  left  the  Church  of  England  for  the  Church  of  Rome.  At  the  Revo- 
lution he  was  dismissed  from  the  place  of  Poet  Laureate,  which  he 
had  held  since  1670,  as  the  successor  of  Davenant,  and  lived  in  com- 
parative obscurity,  though  he  was  still  patronized  by  several  of  the 
nobility.  By  the  loss  of  this  office  he  became  again  almost  wholly 
dependent  on  literary  labor  for  bread.  Dryden  was  married  to  Lady 
Elizabeth  Howard,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Berkshire,  and  had  several 
children,  none  however  of  whom  long  survived  him.  He  died  in  1700, 
and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Dryden  was  the  most  popular  and  (putting  aside  Milton,  who  be- 
longs to  an  earlier  period)  most  eminent  poet  of  the  latter  half  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  His  works  consist  of  plays,  satires,  translations, 
and  occasional  poems.  Of  these,  the  plays  are  much  the  most  volu- 
minous, and  in  their  time  were  doubtless  considered  the  most  im- 
portant ;  but  later  generations  have  bestowed  very  little  attention  on 
them.  They,  however,  gave  occasion  to  several  of  those  compositions 
which  have  made  him  distinguished  as  a  prose  writer,  critical  prefaces, 
explaining  the  nature  of  the  works  they  introduce,  and  vindications, 
rebutting  the  attacks  of  literary  rivals  or  political  opponents.  These 
prose  pieces  have  had  very  warm  admirers,  including  Gray  and  Charles 
James  Fox ;  and  are  characterized  by  Johnson  in  words  that  may  be 
worth  quoting:  "Criticism,  either  didactic  or  defensive,  occupies  al- 
most all  his  prose,  except  those  pages  which  he  has  devoted  to  his 
patrons :  but  none  of  his  prefaces  were  ever  thought  tedious.  They 
have  not  the  formality  of  a  settled  style,  in  which  the  first  half  of  the 
sentence  betrays  the  other.  The  clauses  are  never  balanced,  nor  the 
periods  modelled ;  every  word  seems  to  drop  by  chance,  though  it  falls 
into  its  proper  place.  Nothing  is  cold  or  languid ;  the  whole  is  airy, 
animated,  and  vigorous;  what  is  little  is  gay;  what  is  great  is  splendid. 
He  may  be  thought  to  mention  himself  too  frequently;  but  while  he 
forces  himself  upon  our  esteem,  we  cannot  refuse  him  to  stand  high 
in  his  own.  Everything  is  excused  by  the  play  of  images  and  the 
sprightliness  of  expression.  Though  all  is  easy,  nothing  is  feeble; 
though  all  seems  careless,  there  is  nothing  harsh;  and  though,  since 
his  earlier  works  were  written  several  centuries  have  passed,  they 
contain  nothing  uncouth  or  obsolete. 


itH 


OF   HEROIC   PLAYS 

WHETHER  heroic  verse  ought  to  be  admitted  intoi 
serious  plays  is  not  now  to  be  disputed  :^  it  is  already 
in  possession  of  the  stage;  and  I  dare  confidently 
affirm  that  very  few  tragedies,  in  this  age,  shall  be  received 
without  it.  All  the  arguments  which  are  formed  against  it 
can  amount  to  no  more  than  this — that  it  is  not  so  near  con- 
versation as  prose;  and  therefore  not  so  natural.  But  it  is 
very  clear  to  all  who  understand  poetry  that  serious  plays  ought 
not  to  imitate  conversation  too  nearly.  If  nothing  were  to  be 
raised  above  that  level  the  foundation  of  poetry  would  be  de- 
stroyed. And  if  you  once  admit  of  a  latitude,  that  thoughts 
may  be  exalted,  and  that  images  and  actions  may  be  raised 
above  the  life,  and  described  in  measure  without  rhyme,  that 
leads  you  insensibly  from  your  own  principles  to  mine:  you 
are  already  so  far  onward  of  your  way  that  you  have  forsaken 
the  imitation  of  ordinary  converse;  you  are  gone  beyond  it; 
and  to  continue  where  you  are  is  to  lodge  in  the  open  field, 
betwixt  two  inns.  You  have  lost  that  which  you  call  natural, 
and  have  not  acquired  the  last  perfection  of  art.  But  it  was 
only  custom  which  cozened  us  so  long:  we  thought,  because 
Shakespeare  and  Fletcher  went  no  farther,  that  there  the  pillars 
of  poetry  were  to  be  erected;  that,  because  they  excellently 
described  passion  without  rhyme,  therefore  rhyme  was  not  ca- 
pable of  describing  it.  But  time  has  now  convinced  most  men 
of  that  error.  It  is  indeed  so  difficult  to  write  verse  that  the 
adversaries  of  it  have  a  good  plea  against  many  who  under- 
take that  task  without  being  formed  by  art  or  nature  for  it. 

1  This    essay    was    originally    prefixed  attained  his  fortieth  year.    He  was  born 

to    Dryden's    "  Conquest    of    Granada,"  in    August,    1631.      In    the    preface    to 

which  was  first  published  in  1672.    That  "  The    Mock    Astrologer,       which    ap- 

play,    however,    appears    to    have    been  peared  in  1671,  as  we  have  already  seen, 

first  acted  in  the  year  1670;  for  the  au-  he    mentions    "The    Conquest    of    Gra- 

thor  in  the  epilogue  to  the  First   Part  nada  "  as  having  been  previously  acted, 

tells  the  audience  that  he  had  not  yet  though  not  then  published. 

105 


io6  DRYDEN 

Yet  even  they  who  have  written  worst  in  it  would  have  written 
worse  without  it :  they  have  cozened  many  with  their  sound  who 
never  took  the  pains  to  examine  their  sense.  In  fine,  they 
have  succeeded;  though  it  is  true  they  have  more  dishonored 
rhyme  by  their  good  success  than  they  could  have  done  by 
their  ill.  But  I  am  willing  to  let  fall  this  argument:  it  is 
free  for  every  man  to  write,  or  not  to  write,  in  verse,  as  he 
judges  it  to  be  or  not  to  be  his  talent;  or  as  he  imagines  the 
audience  will  receive  it. 

,  For  heroic  plays  (in  which  only  I  have  used  it  without  the 
mixture  of  prose)  the  first  light  we  had  of  them  on  the  Eng- 
lish theatre  was  from  the  late  Sir  William  D'Avenant.  It  be- 
ing forbidden  him  in  the  rebellious  times  to  act  tragedies  and 
comedies,  because  they  contained  some  matter  of  scandal  to 
those  good  people,  who  could  more  easily  dispossess  their  law- 
ful sovereign  than  endure  a  wanton  jest,  he  was  forced  to  turn 
his  thoughts  another  way,  and  to  introduce  the  examples  of 
moral  virtue,  writ  in  verse,  and  performed  in  recitative  music.'' 
The  original  of  this  music,  and  of  the  scenes  ^  which  adorned 
his  work,  he  had  from  the  Italian  operas;  but  he  heightened 
his  characters  (as  I  may  probably  imagine)  from  the  example 
of  Corneille  and  some  French  poets.  In  this  condition  did  this 
part  of  poetry  remain  at  his  Majesty's  return;  when  growing 
bolder,  as  being  now  owned  by  a  public  authority,  he  reviewed 
his  "  Siege  of  Rhodes,"  and  caused  it  to  be  acted  as  a  just 
drama.  But  as  few  men  have  the  happiness  to  begin  and 
finish  any  new  project,  so  neither  did  he  live  to  make  his  de- 
sign perfect :  there  wanted  the  fulness  of  a  plot  and  the  variety 
of  characters  to  form  it  as  it  ought;  and  perhaps  something 
might  have  been  added  to  the  beauty  of  the  style.  All  which 
he  would  have  performed  with  more  exactness  had  he  pleased 
to  have  given  us  another  work  of  the  same  nature.  For  my- 
self and  others  who  come  after  him,  we  are  bound,  with  all 
veneration  to  his  memory,  to  acknowledge  what  advantage  we 
received  from  that  excellent  groundwork  which  he  laid;  and 
since  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  add  to  what  already  is  invented,  we 

•The    first    edition    of    Sir    William  sung  in  recitative  music— At  the  back 

D'Avenanfs    "  Siege   of    Rhodes  "    was  part    of    Rutland    House,    m    the   upper 

published    in   quarto    in    1656,    with    the  end  of  Aldersgate-street,  London, 

following  title:  "The  Siege  of  Rhodes,  •''In    the    time    of    Shakespeare,    and 

made    a    representation    by    the    art    of  long   afterwards,    our    English    theatres 

prospective   ia   scenes;   and   the    story  were  unfurnished  with  scei-es. 


OF   HEROIC  PLAYS  107 

ought  all  of  us,  without  envy  to  him,  or  partiality  to  ourselves, 
to  yield  him  the  precedence  in  it. 

Having  done  him  this  justice,  as  my  guide,  I  may  do  myself 
so  much,  as  to  give  an  account  of  what  I  have  performed  after 
him.  I  observed  then,  as  I  said,  what  was  wanting  to  the 
perfection  of  his  "  Siege  of  Rhodes ; "  which  was  design  and 
variety  of  characters.  And  in  the  midst  of  this  consideration, 
by  mere  accident  I  opened  the  next  book  that  lay  by  me,  which 
was  an  Ariosto  in  Italian ;  and  the  very  first  two  lines  of  that 
poem  gave  me  light  to  all  I  could  desire: 

**Z(?  donne,  i  cavalier,  I'arme,  gli  amort, 
Le  cor  teste,  I'audaci  imprese  to  canto,"  dr^c. 

For  the  very  next  reflection  which  I  made,  was  this — that  an 
heroic  play  ought  to  be  an  imitation,  in  little,  of  an  heroic 
poem;  and  consequently,  that  love  and  valor  ought  to  be  the 
subject  of  it.  Both  these  Sir  William  D'Avenant  had  begun 
to  shadow ;  but  it  was  so,  as  first  discoverers  draw  their  maps, 
with  head-lands,  and  promontories,  and  some  few  outlines  of 
somewhat  taken  at  a  distance,  and  which  the  designer  saw  not 
clearly.  The  common  drama  obliged  him  to  a  plot  well-formed 
and  pleasant,  or  as  the  ancients  called  it,  one  entire  and  great 
action.  But  this  he  afforded  not  himself  in  a  story,  which  he 
neither  filled  with  persons,  nor  beautified  with  characters,  nor 
varied  with  accidents.  The  laws  of  an  heroic  poem  did  not 
dispense  with  those  of  the  other,  but  raised  them  to  a  greater 
height ;  and  indulged  him  a  farther  liberty  of  fancy,  and  of 
drawing  all  things  as  far  above  the  ordinary  proportion  of  the 
stage  as  that  is  beyond  the  common  words  and  actions  of  hu- 
man life;  and  therefore,  in  the  scanting  of  his  images,  and 
design,  he  complied  not  enough  with  the  greatness  and  majesty 
of  an  heroic  poem. 

I  am  sorry  I  cannot  discover  my  opinion  of  this  kind  of 
writing  without  dissenting  much  from  his,  whose  memory  I 
love  and  honor.  But  I  will  do  it  with  the  same  respect  to  him, 
as  if  he  were  now  alive,  and  overlooking  my  paper  while  I 
write.  His  judgment  of  an  heroic  poem  was  this :  "  That  it 
ought  to  be  dressed  in  a  more  familiar  and  easy  shape;  more 
fitted  to  the  common  actions  and  passions  of  human  life ;  and, 
in  short,  more  like  a  glass  of  nature,  shewing  us  ourselves  in 


loS  DRYDEN 

our  ordinary  habits,  and  figuring  a  more  practicable  virtue  to 
us,  than  was  done  by  the  ancients  or  moderns."  Thus,  he 
takes  the  image  of  an  heroic  poem  from  the  drama,  or  stage- 
poetry;  and  accordingly  intended  to  divide  it  into  five  books, 
representing  the  same  number  of  acts,  and  every  book  into 
several  cantos,  imitating  the  scenes  which  compose  our  acts. 
But  this,  I  think,  is  rather  a  play  in  narration,  as  I  may  call 
it,  than  an  heroic  poem.  If  at  least  you  will  not  prefer  the 
opinion  of  a  single  man  to  the  practice  of  the  most  excellent 
authors  both  of  ancient  and  latter  ages.  I  am  no  admirer  of 
quotations;  but  you  shall  hear,  if  you  please,  one  of  the  an- 
cients delivering  his  judgment  on  this  question ;  it  is  Petronius 
Arbiter,  the  most  elegant,  and  one  of  the  most  judicious  authors 
of  the  Latin  tongue ;  who,  after  he  had  given  many  admirable 
rules  for  the  structure  and  beauties  of  an  epic  poem,  concludes 
all  in  these  following  words :  "  Noti  enim  res  gestae  versibus 
comprehendendcB  sunt,  quod  longe  melius  historici  faciunt: 
sed,  per  ambages,  deorumque  ministeria,  prcrcipitandus  est 
liber  spiritus,  ut  potius  furentis  animi  vaticinatio  appareat, 
quam  religiosce  orationis,  sub  testibus,  Mes."  In  which  sen- 
tence, and  his  own  "  Essay  of  a  Poem  "  which  immediately  he 
gives  you,  it  is  thought  he  taxes  Lucan,  who  followed  too  much 
the  truth  of  history ;  crowded  sentences  together ;  was  too  full 
of  points ;  and  too  often  offered  at  somewhat  which  had  more 
of  the  sting  of  an  epigram  than  of  the  dignity  and  state  of  an 
heroic  poem.  Lucan  used  not  much  the  help  of  his  heathen 
deities:  there  was  neither  the  ministry  of  the  gods,  nor  the 
precipitation  of  the  soul,  nor  the  fury  of  a  prophet  (of  which 
my  author  speaks)  in  his  "Pharsalia:"  he  treats  you  more 
like  a  philosopher  than  a  poet;  and  instructs  you  in  verse, 
with  what  he  had  been  taught  by  his  uncle  Seneca  in  prose. 
In  one  word,  he  walks  soberly  a-foot,  when  he  might  fly.  Yet 
Lucan  is  not  always  this  religious  historian.  The  oracle  of 
Appius  and  the  witchcraft  of  Erictho  will  somewhat  atone  for 
him,  who  was,  indeed,  bound  up  by  an  ill-chosen  and  known 
argument,  to  follow  truth  with  great  exactness.  For  my  part, 
I  am  of  opinion  that  neither  Homer,  Vergil,  Statins,  Ariosto, 
Tasso,  nor  our  English  Spenser,  could  have  formed  their 
poems  half  so  beautiful  without  those  gods  and  spirits  and 
those  enthusiastic  parts  of  poetry  which  compose  the  most 


OF  HEROIC  PLAYS  109 

tioble  parts  of  all  their  writings.  And  I  will  ask  any  man  who 
loves  heroic  poetry  (for  I  will  not  dispute  their  tastes  who 
do  not)  if  the  ghost  of  Polydorus  in  Vergil,  the  enchanted 
wood  in  Tasso,  and  the  bower  of  bliss  in  Spenser  (which  he 
borrows  from  that  admirable  Italian),  could  have  been  omit- 
ted without  taking  from  their  works  some  of  the  greatest 
beauties  in  them?  And  if  any  man  object  the  improbabilities 
of  a  spirit  appearing,  or  of  a  palace  raised  by  magic,  I  boldly 
answer  him  that  an  heroic  poet  is  not  tied  to  a  bare  repre- 
sentation of  what  is  true,  or  exceeding  probable,  but  that  he 
may  let  himself  loose  to  visionary  objects,  and  to  the  repre- 
sentation of  such  things  as  depending  not  on  sense,  and  there- 
fore not  to  be  comprehended  by  knowledge,  may  give  him  a 
freer  scope  for  imagination.  It  is  enough,  that  in  all  ages 
and  religions  the  greatest  part  of  mankind  have  believed  the 
power  of  magic,  and  that  there  are  spirits  or  spectres  which 
have  appeared.  This,  I  say,  is  foundation  enough  for  poetry: 
and  I  dare  farther  affirm  that  the  whole  doctrine  of  separated 
beings,  whether  those  spirits  are  incorporeal  substances  (which 
Mr.  Hobbes,  with  some  reason,  thinks  to  imply  a  contradic- 
tion), or  that  they  are  a  thinner  and  more  aerial  sort  of  bodies 
(as  some  of  the  fathers  have  conjectured)  may  better  be  ex- 
plicated by  poets,  than  by  philosophers  or  divines.  For  their 
speculations  on  this  subject  are  wholly  poetical ;  they  have  only 
their  fancy  for  their  guide;  and  that,  being  sharper  in  an  ex- 
cellent poet  than  it  is  likely  it  should  be  in  a  phlegmatic,  heavy 
gown-man,  will  see  farther  in  its  own  empire,  and  produce 
more  satisfactory  notions  on  those  dark  and  doubtful  problems. 
Some  men  think  they  have  raised  a  great  argument  against 
the  use  of  spectres  and  magic  in  heroic  poetry  by  saying — they 
are  unnatural:  but  whether  they  or  I  believe  there  are  such 
things  is  not  material;  it  is  enough  that,  for  aught  we  know, 
they  may  be  in  nature;  and  whatever  is  or  may  be  is  not 
properly  unnatural.  Neither  am  I  much  concerned  at  Mr. 
Cowley's  verses  before  Gondibert;  though  his  authority  is  al- 
most sacred  to  me.  It  is  true  he  has  resembled  the  old  epic 
poetry  to  a  fantastic  fairy-land;  but  he  has  contradicted  him- 
self by  his  own  example ;  for  he  has  himself  made  use  of  angels 
and  visions  in  his  "  Davideis,"  as  well  as  Tasso  in  his  "  God- 
frey." 


no  DRYDEN 

What  I  have  written  on  this  subject  will  not  be  thought 
digression  by  the  reader  if  he  please  to  remember  what  I  said 
in  the  beginning  of  this  Essay — that  I  have  modelled  my  heroic 
plays  by  the  rules  of  an  heroic  poem.  And  if  that  be  the  most 
noble,  the  most  pleasant,  and  the  most  instructive  way  of  writ- 
ing in  verse,  and,  withal,  the  highest  pattern  of  human  life, 
as  all  poets  have  agreed,  I  shall  need  no  other  argument  to 
justify  my  choice  in  this  imitation.  One  advantage  the  drama 
has  above  the  other,  namely,  that  it  represents  to  view  what 
the  poem  only  does  relate ;  and  "  Segnius  irritant  animum  de- 
missa  per  aurem,  quam  qucu  sunt  ociilis  suhjecta  Udelihus,"  as 
Horace  tells  us. 

To  those  who  object  my  frequent  use  of  drums  and  trum- 
pets, and  my  representations  of  battles — I  answer,  I  introduced 
them  not  on  the  English  stage:  Shakespeare  used  them  fre- 
quently ;  and,  though  Jonson  shows  no  battle  in  his  "  Catiline," 
yet  you  hear  from  behind  the  scenes  the  sounding  of  trumpets 
and  the  shouts  of  fighting  armies.  But  I  add  farther;  that 
these  warlike  instruments,  and,  even  their  presentations  of 
fighting  on  the  stage,  are  no  more  than  necessary  to  produce 
the  effects  of  an  heroic  play ;  that  is,  to  raise  the  imagination 
of  the  audience  and  to  persuade  them,  for  the  time,  that  what 
they  behold  on  the  theatre  is  really  performed.  The  poet  is, 
then,  to  endeavor  an  absolute  dominion  over  the  minds  of  the 
spectators ;  for  though  our  fancy  will  contribute  to  its  own 
deceit,  yet  a  writer  ought  to  help  its  operation.  And  that  the 
Red  Bull  has  formerly  done  the  same  is  no  more  an  argument 
against  our  practice  than  it  would  be  for  a  physician  to  forbear 
an  approved  medicine  because  a  mountebank  has  used  it  with 
success. 

Thus  I  have  given  a  short  account  of  heroic  plays.  I  might 
now,  with  the  usual  eagerness  of  an  author,  make  a  particular 
defence  of  this.  But  the  common  opinion  (how  unjust  soever) 
has  been  so  much  to  my  advantage  that  I  have  reason  to  be 
satisfied ;  and  to  suffer  with  patience  all  that  can  be  urged 
against  it. 

For,  otherwise,  what  can  be  more  easy  for  me  than  to  defend 
the  character  of  Almanzor,  which  is  one  great  exception  that 
is  made  against  the  play?     It  is  said  that  Almanzor  is  no 


OF   HEROIC    PLAYS  ill 

perfect  pattern  of  heroic  virtue;  that  he  is  a  contemner  of 
kings ;  and  that  he  is  made  to  perform  impossibiUties. 

I  must,  therefore  avow,  in  the  first  place,  from  whence  I 
took  the  character.  The  first  image  I  had  of  him  was  from 
the  Achilles  of  Homer;  the  next  from  Tasso's  Rinaldo^  who 
was  a  copy  of  the  former;  and  the  third  from  the  Artaban  of 
Monsieur  Calpranede,  who  has  imitated  both.  The  original 
of  these,  Achilles,  is  taken  by  Homer  for  his  hero ;  and  is  de- 
scribed by  him  as  one,  who  in  strength  and  courage  surpassed 
the  rest  of  the  Grecian  army,  but,  withal,  of  so  fiery  a  temper, 
so  impatient  of  an  injury,  even  from  his  king  and  general,  that, 
when  his  mistress  was  to  be  forced  from  him  by  the  command 
of  Agamemnon,  he  not  only  disobeyed  it,  but  returned  him  an 
answer  full  of  contumely,  and  in  the  most  opprobious  terms 
he  could  imagine.  They  are  Homer's  words  which  follow, 
and  I  have  cited  but  some  few  amongst  a  multitude : 

Oluofiapes,  Kvvhs  ufjL/j.ar   fX'^^i  KpaSiriv  5'  iXd<poio. — I.  a.  V.  225- 
ArifjiofiSpos  Paa-iKevs,  &c. — I.  a.  V.23I. 

Nay,  he  proceeded  so  far  in  his  insolence,  as  to  draw  out  his 
sword,  with  intention  to  kill  him : 

"EAksto  5'  e'/f  KO\eo7o  /xiya  ^l<pos. — I.  a.  v.  I94. 

and,  if  Minerva  had  not  appeared,  and  held  his  hand,  he  had 
executed  his  design ;  and  it  was  all  she  could  do  to  dissuade 
him  from  it.  The  event  was  that  he  left  the  army  and  would 
fight  no  more.  Agamemnon  gives  his  character  thus  to  Nes- 
tor: 

'AAA'  28'  auiip  ibeXei  vepi  ■srd.vTOiv  efx/ifvai  SWiui', 

ndvroiv  ney  Kpareeiy  e^-eAe:,  travreaa'i  5'  avdacreiy. — I.  a.  V.   287,  288. 

and  Horace  gives  the  same  description  of  him  in  his  "  Art  of 

Poetry  " : 

'■'  Honoratuni  si  forte  reponis  Achillem, 


Impiger,  iracundus,  inexorabilis,  acer. 

Jura  neget  sibi  nata,  nihil  non  arroget  armis," 


112  DRYDEN 

Tasso's  chief  character,  Rinaldo,  was  a  man  of  the  same 
temper;  for  when  he  had  slain  Gernando,  in  his  heat  of  pas- 
sion, he  not  only  refused  to  be  judged  by  Godfrey,  his  general, 
but  threatened,  that  if  he  came  to  seize  him,  he  would  right 
himself  by  arms  upon  him;  witness  these  following  lines  of 
Tasso : 

"  Venga  egli,  o  mandi,  io  terrd  fermo  il  piede  ; 
Giudici  fian  tra  noi  la  sorte,  e  I'arfne  : 
Ferra  tragedia  vuol  che  s^  appresenti. 
Per  lor  diporto,  alle  nemic he  genii." 

You  see  how  little  these  great  authors  did  esteem  the  point 
of  honor,  so  much  magnified  by  the  French,  and  so  ridiculously 
aped  by  us.  They  made  their  heroes  men  of  honor ;  but  so  as 
not  to  divest  them  quite  of  human  passions  and  frailties :  they 
content  themselves  to  show  you  what  men  of  great  spirits 
would  certainly  do  when  they  were  provoked,  not  what  they 
were  obliged  to  do  by  the  strict  rules  of  moral  virtue.  For 
my  own  part,  I  declare  myself  for  Homer  and  Tasso ;  and  am 
more  in  love  with  Achilles  and  Rinaldo  than  with  Cyrus  and 
Oroondates.  I  shall  never  subject  my  characters  to  the 
French  standard,  where  love  and  honor  are  to  be  weighed  by 
drachms  and  scruples;  yet,  where  I  have  designed  the  pat- 
terns of  exact  virtues,  such  as  in  this  play  are  the  parts  of 
Almahide,  of  Ozmyn,  and  Benzayda,  I  may  safely  challenge 
the  best  of  theirs. 

But  Almanzor  is  taxed  with  changing  sides :  and  what  tie 
has  he  on  him  to  the  contrary?  He  is  not  born  their  subject 
whom  he  serves;  and  he  is  injured  by  them  to  a  very  high  de- 
gree. He  threatens  them,  and  speaks  insolently  of  sovereign 
power ;  but  so  do  Achilles  and  Rinaldo,  who  were  subjects  and 
soldiers  to  Agamemnon  and  Godfrey  of  Bouillon.  He  talks 
extravagantly  in  his  passion ;  but,  if  I  would  take  the  pains  to 
quote  an  hundred  passages  of  Ben  Jonson's  "  Cethegus,"  I 
could  easily  show  you  that  the  rhodomontades  of  Almanzor  are 
neither  so  irrational  as  his,  nor  so  impossible  to  be  put  in  exe- 
cution ;  for  Cethegus  threatens  to  destroy  nature,  and  to  raise 
a  new  one  out  of  it ;  to  kill  all  the  Senate  for  his  part  of  the 
action ;  to  look  Cato  dead ;  and  a  thousand  other  things  as  ex- 
travagant, he  says,  but  performs  not  one  action  in  the  play. 


OF   HEROIC   PLAYS  113 

But  none  of  the  former  calumnies  will  stick:  and  therefore, 
it  is  at  last  charged  upon  me  that  Almanzor  does  all  things ;  or 
if  you  will  have  an  absurd  accusation,  in  their  nonsense  who 
make  it,  that  he  performs  impossibilities :  they  say,  that  being 
a  stranger,  he  appeases  two  fighting  factions,  when  the  au- 
thority of  their  lawful  sovereign  could  not.  This  is,  indeed, 
the  most  improbable  of  all  his  actions ;  but,  it  is  far  from  being 
impossible.  Their  king  had  made  himself  contemptible  to  his 
people — as  the  "  History  of  Granada  "  tells  us ;  and  Almanzor, 
though  a  stranger,  yet  was  already  known  to  them  by  his  gal- 
lantry in  the  juego  de  toros,  his  engagement  on  the  weaker 
side,  and  more  especially  by  the  character  of  his  person  and 
brave  actions,  given  by  Abdalla  just  before.  And,  after  all, 
the  greatness  of  the  enterprise  consisted  only  in  the  daring; 
for  he  had  the  king's  guards  to  second  him ;  but  we  have  read 
both  of  Caesar,  and  many  other  generals,  who  have  not  only 
calmed  a  mutiny  with  a  word,  but  have  presented  themselves 
single  before  an  army  of  their  enemies ;  which,  upon  sight  of 
them,  has  revolted  from  their  own  leaders,  and  come  over  to 
their  trenches.  In  the  rest  of  Almanzor's  actions,  you  see 
him  for  the  most  part  victorious;  but  the  same  fortune  has 
constantly  attended  many  heroes  who  were  not  imaginary. 
Yet,  you  see  it  no  inheritance  to  him ;  for,  in  the  first  part,  he 
is  made  a  prisoner,  and,  in  the  last,  defeated,  and  not  able  to 
preserve  the  city  from  being  taken.  If  the  history  of  the  late 
Duke  of  Guise  be  true,  he  hazarded  more,  and  performed  not 
less  in  Naples  than  Almanzor  is  feigned  to  have  done  in 
Granada.* 

I  have  been  too  tedious  in  this  apology ;  but  to  make  some 
satisfaction,  I  will  leave  the  rest  of  my  play  exposed  to  the 
critics,  without  defence. 

*  "  The  two  parts  of  '  The   Conquest  ranges  the  world  at  will,  and  governs 

of  Granada,'  "  says   Dr.  Johnson,       are  wherever  he  appears.     He   fights  with- 

written   with    a    seeming    determination  out   inquiring  the   cause,    and   loves   in 

to   glut  the   public  with    dramatic   won-  spite    of    the    obligations    of    justice,    of 

ders;    to   exhibit,    in   its   highest    eleva-  rejection   by   his   mistress,   and   of   pro- 

tion,    a   theatrical    meteor   of    incredible  hibition  from  the  dead.     Yet  the  scenes 

love  and  impossible  valor,  and  to  leave  are  for  the   most   part   delightful ;   they 

no  room  for  a  wilder  flight  to  the  ex-  exhibit   a   kind   of   illustrious   depravity 

travagance   of   posterity.     All    the    rays  and  majestic  madness:  such  as,  if  it  is 

of  romantic  heat,   whether  amorous   or  sometimes  despised,  is  often  reverenced, 

warlike,   glow   in   Almanzor   by   a   kind  and    in    which    the    ridiculous    is   often 

of  concentration.    He  is  above  all  laws;  mingled  with  the  astonishing." 
he   is    exempt    from   all    restraints;    he 

6— VoL  57 


114  DRYDEN 

The  concernment  of  it  is  wholly  passed  from  me,  and  ought 
to  be  in  them  who  have  been  favorable  to  it,  and  are  somewhat 
obliged  to  defend  their  own  opinions.  That  there  are  errors 
in  it,  I  deny  not ; 

"Ast  opere  in  tantofas  est  obrepere  somnum."  * 

But  I  have  already  swept  the  stakes ;  and,  with  the  common 
good  fortune  of  prosperous  gamesters,  can  be  content  to  sit 
quietly — to  hear  my  fortune  cursed  by  some,  and  my  faults 
arraigned  by  others ;  and  to  suffer  both  without  reply. 

•  Horace's   line   is,    "  Verum  opere   in  longo  fas  est  obrepere  somnum." 


F  PRACTICE  AND  HABITS 


OF  PRINCIPLES 


OF  PREJUDICES 


OF  OBSERVATION 


OF  READING 


SOME  THOUGHTS  CONCERNING 
EDUCATION 


BY 


JOHN  LOCKE 


JOHN    LOCKE 
1632— 1704 

John  Locke  was  born  at  Wrington,  in  Somersetshire,  in  1632.  He 
was  educated  at  Westminster,  from  which  he  was  removed  to  a  stu- 
dentship at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  where  he  was  greatly  distinguished 
no  less  by  industry  than  by  superior  ability.  The  writings  of  Descartes 
appear  early  to  have  excited  his  interest  in  the  study  of  philosophy. 
After  having  taken  the  degree  of  M.A.  in  1658  he  applied  himself  to 
the  study  of  medicine,  but  his  health  prevented  his  pursuing  that  pro- 
fession. In  1666  he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Lord  Ashley,  after- 
wards Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  to  whose  fortunes  he  was  attached  for 
many  years,  sharing  his  prosperity  and  his  disgrace,  and  for  a  time 
acting  first  as  tutor  to  his  son,  and  then  to  his  grandson,  the  future  au- 
thor of  the  "  Characteristics."  Locke  commenced  his  famous  "  Essay 
Concerning  Human  Understanding  "  in  1670,  but  it  was  not  till  1687 
that  he  was  able  to  complete  it.  It  attracted  great  and  immediate  atten- 
tion, not  only  in  philosophical  circles,  but  in  the  wider  world  of  thought- 
ful readers.  It  was  followed  in  the  next  few  years  by  the  "  Letters 
on  Toleration  "  and  the  "  Treatises  on  Government "  and  "  Thoughts 
on  Education,"  as  well  as  by  several  minor  essays  in  vindication  of 
opinions  advanced  in  his  larger  works.  He  suffered  severely  from 
asthma  during  the  later  part  of  his  life,  and  lived  at  Gates  in  the  re- 
tirement of  Sir  Francis  Masham's  house  for  the  last  fourteen  years. 
He  died  in  1704  in  the  seventy-third  year  of  his  age. 

Locke  is  one  of  the  most  prominent  of  our  philosophical  and  political 
authors;  there  is  probably  no  writer  on  philosophy  who  has  produced 
such  a  broad  and  solid  effect  on  the  mind  of  the  English  people.  Few 
have  turned  their  attention  to  metaphysical  inquiries  without  reading 
his  "  Essay  Concerning  Human  Understanding,"  which  has  lent  to 
such  inquiries  whatever  popularity  they  possess.  D'Alembert  says  that 
Locke  created  the  science  of  metaphysics  in  somewhat  the  same  way 
as  Newton  created  that  of  physics;  and  his  inquiry  into  the  origin, 
development,  and  combination  of  our  thoughts  justly  entitle  him  to  be 
called  the  founder  of  psychology  in  England.  There  is  scarcely  any 
English  writer  whose  works  bear  such  an  impress  of  originality,  power, 
patient  sagacity,  and  good  sense.  The  style  of  Locke  has  fine  qualities, 
but  is  too  incorrect  to  be  taken  as  a  model  of  English  language.  It  is 
homely,  racy,  and  masculine,  though  wanting  in  philosophical  precision 
and  sometimes  too  idiomatic  and  colloquial,  or  too  indefinite  and  fig- 
urative for  the  abstruse  subjects  with  which  he  has  to  deal.  The  six 
essays  that  follow  have  been  carefully  selected.  The  essay  entitled 
"  Some  Thoughts  Concerning  Education "  has  many  valuable  sug- 
gestions, and  is  generally  considered  to  fill  an  important  place  in  the 
literature  on  that  subject. 


116 


OF  PRACTICE   AND   HABITS 

WE  are  born  with  faculties  and  powers  capable  almost 
of  anything,  such  at  least  as  would  carry  us  further 
than  can  be  easily  imagined ;  but  it  is  only  the  exer- 
cise of  those  powers  which  gives  us  ability  and  skill  in  any- 
thing, and  leads  us  towards  perfection. 

A  middle-aged  ploughman  will  scarce  ever  be  brought  to 
the  carriage  and  language  of  a  gentleman,  though  his  body  be 
as  well  proportioned,  and  his  joints  as  supple,  and  his  natural 
parts  not  any  way  inferior.  The  legs  of  a  dancing-master,  and 
the  fingers  of  a  musician,  fall  as  it  were  naturally,  without 
thought  or  pains,  into  regular  and  admirable  motions.  Bid 
them  change  their  parts,  and  they  will  in  vain  endeavor  to 
produce  like  motions  in  the  members  not  used  to  them,  and  it 
will  require  length  of  time  and  long  practice  to  attain  but  some 
degrees  of  a  like  ability.  What  incredible  and  astonishing  ac- 
tions do  we  find  rope-dancers  and  tumblers  bring  their  bodies 
to ! — not  but  that  sundry  in  almost  all  manual  arts  are  as  won- 
derful; but  I  name  those  which  the  world  takes  notice  of  for 
such,  because,  on  that  very  account,  they  give  money  to  see 
them.  All  these  admired  motions,  beyond  the  reach,  and  al- 
most the  conception,  of  unpractised  spectators,  are  nothing  but 
the  mere  effects  of  use  and  industry  in  men  whose  bodies  have 
nothing  peculiar  in  them  from  those  of  the  amazed  lookers-on. 

As  it  is  in  the  body,  so  it  is  in  the  mind;  practice  makes  it 
what  it  is:  and  most,  even  of  those  excellencies  which  are 
looked  on  as  natural  endowments,  will  be  found,  when  exam- 
ined into  more  narrowly,  to  be  the  product  of  exercise,  and  to 
be  raised  to  that  pitch  only  by  repeated  actions.  Some  men 
are  remarked  for  pleasantness  in  raillery ;  others  for  apologues 
and  apposite  diverting  stories.  This  is  apt  to  be  taken  for  the 
effect  of  pure  nature,  and, that  the  rather,  because  it  is  not  got 
by  rules;  and  those  who  excel  in  either  of  them  never  pur- 
posely set  themselves  to  the  study  of  it  as  an  art  to  be  learned. 

"7 


,18-  LOCKE 

But  yet  it  is  true  that  at  first  some  lucky  hit  which  took  with 
somebody,  and  gained  him  commendation,  encouraged  him  to 
try  again,  inclined  his  thoughts  and  endeavors  that  way,  till 
at  last  he  insensibly  got  a  facility  in  it  without  perceiving  how ; 
and  that  is  attributed  wholly  to  nature,  which  was  much  more 
the  effect  of  use  and  practice.  I  do  not  deny  that  natural  dis- 
position may  often  give  the  first  rise  to  it;  but  that  never  car- 
ries a  man  far  without  use  and  exercise,  and  it  is  practice  alone 
that  brings  the  powers  of  the  mind,  as  well  as  those  of  the  body, 
to  their  perfection.  Many  a  good  poetic  vein  is  buried  under 
a  trade,  and  never  produces  anything,  for  want  of  improve- 
ment. We  see  the  ways  of  discourse  and  reasoning  are  very 
different,  even  concerning  the  same  matter  at  court  and  in  the 
university.  And  he  that  will  go  but  from  Westminster  Hall 
to  the  Exchange  will  find  a  different  genius  and  turn  in  their 
ways  of  talking:  and  yet  one  cannot  think  that  all  whose  lot 
fell  in  the  city  were  born  with  different  parts  from  those  who 
were  bred  at  the  university  or  inns  of  court. 

To  what  purpose  all  this,  but  to  show  that  the  difference  so 
observable  in  men's  understandings  and  parts  does  not  arise  so 
niuch  from  the  natural  faculties  as  acquired  habits?  He  would 
be  laughed  at  that  should  go  about  to  make  a  fine  dancer  out 
of  a  country  hedger  at  past  fifty.  And  he  will  not  have  much 
better  success  who  shall  endeavor  at  that  age  to  make  a  man 
reason  well,  or  speak  handsomely,  who  has  never  been  used  to 
it,  though  you  should  lay  before  him  a  collection  of  all  the 
best  precepts  of  logic  or  oratory.  Nobody  is  made  anything 
by  hearing  of  rules,  or  laying  them  up  in  his  memory ;  practice 
must  settle  the  habit  of  doing,  without  reflecting  on  the  rule: 
and  you  may  as  well  hope  to  make  a  good  painter  or  musician 
extempore  by  a  lecture  and  instruction  in  the  arts  of  music  and 
painting,  as  a  coherent  thinker,  or  strict  reasoner,  by  a  set  of 
rules  showing  him  wherein  right  reasoning  consists. 

This  being  so,  that  defects  and  weakness  in  men's  under- 
standings, as  well  as  other  faculties,  come  from  a  want  of  a 
right  use  of  their  own  minds,  I  am  apt  to  think  the  fault  is 
generally  mislaid  upon  nature,  and  there  is  often  a  complaint 
of  want  of  parts,  when  the  fault  lies  in  want  of  a  due  improve- 
ment of  them.  We  see  men  frequently  dexterous  and  sharp 
enough  in  making  a  bargain,  who,  if  you  reason  with  them 
about  matters  of  religion;  appear  perfectly  stupid. 


OF   PRINCIPLES 

THERE  is  another  fault  that  stops  or  misleads  men  in 
their  knowledge,  which  I  have  also  spoken  something 
of,  but  yet  is  necessary  to  mention  here  again,  that  we 
may  examine  it  to  the  bottom,  and  see  the  root  is  springs  from, 
and  that  is  the  custom  of  taking  up  with  principles  that  are  not 
self-evident,  and  very  often  not  so  much  as  true.  It  is  not  un- 
usual to  see  men  rest  their  opinions  upon  foundations  that  have 
no  more  certainty  nor  solidity  than  the  propositions  built  on 
them,  and  embraced  for  their  sake.  Such  foundations  are 
these,  and  the  like,  namely:  The  founders  or  leaders  of  my 
party  are  good  men,  and  therefore  their  tenets  are  true;  it  is 
the  opinion  of  a  sect  that  is  erroneous,  therefore  it  is  false :  it 
hath  been  long  received  in  the  world,  therefore  it  is  true ;  or,  it 
is  new,  and  therefore  false. 

These,  and  many  the  like,  which  are  by  no  means  the  meas- 
ures of  truth  and  falsehood,  the  generality  of  men  make  the 
standards  by  which  they  accustom  their  understanding  to  judge. 
And  thus,  they  falling  into  a  habit  of  determining  of  truth  and 
falsehood  by  such  wrong  measures,  it  is  no  wonder  they  should 
embrace  error  for  certainty,  and  be  very  positive  in  things  they 
have  no  ground  for. 

There  is  not  any  who  pretends  to  the  least  reason,  but  when 
any  of  these  his  false  maxims  are  brought  to  the  test,  must 
acknowledge  them  to  be  fallible,  and  such  as  he  will  not  allow 
in  those  that  differ  from  him;  and  yet,  after  he  is  convinced 
of  this,  you  shall  see  him  go  on  in  the  use  of  them,  and  the 
very  next  occasion  that  offers,  argue  again  upon  the  same 
grounds.  Would  one  not  be  ready  to  think  that  men  are  will- 
ing to  impose  upon  themselves,  and  mislead  their  own  under- 
standing, who  conduct  them  by  such  wrong  measures,  even 
after  they  see  they  cannot  be  relied  on  ?    But  yet,  they  will  not 

119 


120 


LOCKE 


appear  so  blamable  as  may  be  thought  at  first  sight ;  for  I  think 
there  are  a  great  many  that  argue  thus  in  earnest,  and  do  it 
not  to  impose  on  themselves  or  others.  They  are  persuaded 
of  what  they  say,  and  think  there  is  weight  in  it,  though,  in  a 
like  case,  they  have  been  convinced  there  is  none;  but  men 
would  be  intolerable  to  themselves,  and  contemptible  to  others, 
if  they  should  embrace  opinions  without  any  ground,  and  hold 
what  they  could  give  no  manner  of  reason  for.  True  or  false, 
solid  or  sandy,  the  mind  must  have  some  foundation  to  rest 
itself  upon;  and,  as  I  have  remarked  in  another  place,  it  no 
sooner  entertains  any  proposition,  but  it  presently  hastens  to 
some  hypothesis  to  bottom  it  on :  till  then  it  is  unquiet  and  un- 
settled. So  much  do  our  own  very  tempers  dispose  us  to  a 
right  use  of  our  understandings,  if  we  would  follow  as  we 
should  the  inclinations  of  our  nature. 

In  some  matters  of  concernment,  especially  those  of  religion, 
men  are  not  permitted  to  be  always  wavering  and  uncertain, 
they  must  embrace  and  profess  some  tenets  or  other ;  and  it 
would  be  a  shame,  nry,  a  contradiction  too  heavy  for  anyone's 
mind  to  lie  constantly  under,  for  him  to  pretend  seriously  to  be 
persuaded  of  the  truth  of  any  religion,  and  yet  not  to  be  able 
to  give  any  reason  of  his  belief,  or  to  say  anything  for  his 
preference  of  this  to  any  other  opinion ;  and,  therefore,  they 
must  make  use  of  some  principles  or  other,  and  those  can  be  no 
other  than  such  as  they  have  and  can  manage ;  and  to  say  they 
are  not  in  earnest  persuaded  by  them,  and  do  not  rest  upon 
those  they  make  use  of,  is  contrary  to  experience,  and  to  allege 
that  they  are  not  misled  when  we  complain  they  are. 

If  this  be  so,  it  will  be  urged  why,  then,  do  they  not  rather 
make  use  of  sure  and  unquestionable  principles,  rather  than 
rest  on  such  grounds  as  may  deceive  them,  and  will,  as  is 
visible,  serve  to  support  error  as  well  as  truth  ? 

To  this  I  answer,  the  reason  why  they  do  not  make  use  o£ 
better  and  surer  principles  is  because  they  cannot :  but  this  in- 
ability proceeds  not  from  want  of  natural  parts  (for  those  few 
whose  case  that  is,  are  to  be  excused),  but  for  want  of  use  and 
exercise.  Few  men  are  from  their  youth  accustomed  to  strict 
reasoning,  and  to  trace  the  dependence  of  any  truth  in  a  long 
train  of  consequences  to  its  remote  principles,  and  to  observe 
its  connection;  and  he  that  by  frequent  practice  has  not  been 


OF   PRINCIPLES  xai 

used  to  this  employment  of  his  understanding,  it  is  no  more 
wonder  that  he  should  not,  when  he  is  grown  into  years,  be 
able  to  bring  his  mind  to  it,  than  that  he  should  not  be  on  a 
sudden  able  to  grave  or  design,  dance  on  the  ropes,  or  write 
a  good  hand,  who  has  never  practised  either  of  them. 

Nay,  the  most  of  men  are  so  wholly  strangers  to  this,  that 
they  do  not  so  much  as  perceive  their  want  of  it ;  they  despatch 
the  ordinary  business  of  their  callings  by  rote,  as  we  say,  as 
they  have  learned  it ;  and  if  at  any  time  they  miss  success,  they 
impute  it  to  anything  rather  than  want  of  thought  or  skill ;  that, 
they  conclude  (because  they  know  no  better),  they  have  in 
perfection :  or,  if  there  be  any  subject  that  interest  or  fancy  has 
recommended  to  their  thoughts,  their  reasoning  about  it  is  still 
after  their  own  fashion,  be  it  better  or  worse;  it  serves  their 
turns,  and  is  the  best  they  are  acquainted  with ;  and,  therefore, 
when  they  are  led  by  it  into  mistakes,  and  their  business  suc- 
ceeds accordingly,  they  impute  it  to  any  cross  accident  or  de- 
fault of  others,  rather  than  to  their  own  want  of  understanding ; 
that  is  what  nobody  discovers  or  complains  of  in  himself. 
Whatsoever  made  his  business  to  miscarry,  it  was  not  want  of 
right  thought  or  judgment  in  himself:  he  sees  no  such  defect 
in  himself,  but  is  satisfied  that  he  carries  on  his  designs  well 
enough  by  his  own  reasoning;  or,  at  least,  should  have  done, 
had  it  not  been  for  unlucky  traverses  not  in  his  power.  Thus, 
being  content  with  this  short  and  very  imperfect  use  of  his 
understanding,  he  never  troubles  himself  to  seek  out  methods 
of  improving  his  mind,  and  lives  all  his  life  without  any  notion 
of  close  reasoning,  in  a  continued  connection  of  a  long  train 
of  consequences  from  sure  foundations,  such  as  is  requisite  for 
the  making  out  and  clearing  most  of  the  speculative  truths 
most  men  own  to  believe  and  are  most  concerned  in.  Not  to 
mention  here  what  I  shall  have  occasion  to  insist  on  by  and  by 
more  fully,  namely,  that,  in  many  cases,  it  is  not  one  series  of 
consequences  will  serve  the  turn,  but  many  different  and  op- 
posite deductions  must  be  examined  and  laid  together,  before 
a  man  can  come  to  make  a  right  judgment  of  the  point  in  ques- 
tion. What,  then,  can  be  expected  from  men  that  neither  see 
the  want  of  any  such  kind  of  reasoning  as  this ;  nor,  if  they  do, 
know  they  how  to  set  about  it,  or  could  perform  it  ?  You  may 
as  well  set  a  countryman,  who  scarce  knows  the  figures,  and 


122  LOCK£ 

never  casts  up  a  sum  of  three  particulars,  to  state  a  merchant's 
long  account,  and  find  the  true  balance  of  it. 

What,  then,  should  be  done  in  the  case  ?  I  answer,  we  should 
always  remember  what  I  said  above,  that  the  faculties  of  our 
souls  are  improved  and  made  useful  to  us,  just  after  the  same 
manner  as  our  bodies  are.  Would  you  have  a  man  write  or 
paint,  dance  or  fence  well,  or  perform  any  other  manual  opera- 
tion dexterously  and  with  ease,  let  him  have  never  so  much 
vigor  and  activity,  suppleness  and  address,  naturally,  yet  no- 
body expects  this  from  him  unless  he  has  been  used  to  it,  and 
has  employed  time  and  pains  in  fashioning  and  forming  his 
hand,  or  outward  parts,  to  these  motions.  Just  so  it  is  in  the 
mind — would  you  have  a  man  reason  well,  you  must  use  him 
to  it  betimes,  exercise  his  mind  in  observing  the  connection  of 
ideas,  and  following  them  in  train.  Nothing  does  this  better 
than  mathematics,  which,  therefore,  I  think,  should  be  taught 
all  those  who  have  the  time  and  opportunity ;  not  so  much  to 
make  them  mathematicians,  as  to  make  them  reasonable  creat- 
ures ;  for  though  we  all  call  ourselves  so,  because  we  are  born 
to  it,  if  we  please,  yet  we  may  truly  say,  nature  gives  us  but 
the  seeds  of  it ;  we  are  born  to  be,  if  we  please,  rational  creat- 
ures, but  it  is  use  and  exercise  only  that  make  us  so,  and  we  are 
indeed  so  no  further  than  industry  and  application  have  carried 
us.  And,  therefore,  in  ways  of  reasoning  which  men  have  not 
been  used  to,  he  that  will  observe  the  conclusions  they  take  up 
must  be  satisfied  they  are  not  at  all  rational. 

This  has  been  the  less  taken  notice  of  because  everyone  in 
his  private  affairs  uses  some  sort  of  reasoning  or  other,  enough 
to  denominate  him  reasonable.  But  the  mistake  is  that  he  that 
is  found  reasonable  in  one  thing  is  concluded  to  be  so  in  all ; 
and  to  think  or  say  otherwise  is  thought  so  unjust  an  affront, 
and  so  senseless  a  censure,  that  nobody  ventures  to  do  it.  It 
looks  like  the  degradation  of  a  man  below  the  dignity  of  his 
nature.  It  is  true  that  he  that  reasons  well  in  any  one  thing 
has  a  mind  naturally  capable  of  reasoning  well  in  others,  and 
to  the  same  degree  of  strength  and  clearness,  and  possibly  much 
greater,  had  his  understanding  been  so  employed.  But  it  is  as 
true  that  he  who  can  reason  well  to-day  about  one  sort  of  mat- 
ters cannot  at  all  reason  to-day  about  others,  though  perhaps 
a  year  hence  he  may,     But  wherever  a  man's  rational  faculty 


OF    PRINCIPLES  123 

fails  him,  and  will  not  serve  him  to  reason,  there  we  cannot 
say  he  is  rational,  how  capable  soever  he  may  be  by  time  and 
exercise  to  become  so. 

Try  in  men  of  low  and  mean  education,  who  have  never  ele- 
vated their  thoughts  above  the  spade  and  the  plough,  nor  looked 
beyond  the  ordinary  drudgery  of  a  day  laborer.  Take  the 
thoughts  of  such  a  one,  used  for  many  years  to  one  tract,  out 
of  that  narrow  compass  he  has  been  all  his  life  confined  to,  you 
will  find  him  no  more  capable  of  reasoning  than  almost  a  per- 
fect natural.  Some  one  or  two  rules,  on  which  their  conclu- 
sions immediately  depend,  you  will  find,  in  most  men,  have 
governed  all  their  thoughts ;  these,  true  or  false,  have  been  the 
maxims  they  have  been  guided  by — take  these  from  them,  and 
they  are  perfectly  at  a  loss;  their  compass  and  pole-star  then 
are  gone,  and  their  understanding  is  perfectly  at  a  nonplus: 
and,  therefore,  they  either  immediately  return  to  their  old  max- 
ims again  as  the  foundations  of  all  truth  to  them,  notwithstand- 
ing all  that  can  be  said  to  show  their  weakness ;  or  if  they  give 
them  up  to  their  reasons,  they  with  them  give  up  all  truth  and 
further  inquiry,  and  think  there  is  no  such  thing  as  certainty. 
For  if  you  would  enlarge  their  thoughts,  and  settle  them  upon 
more  remote  and  surer  principles,  they  either  cannot  easily 
apprehend  them,  or,  if  they  can,  know  not  what  use  to  make 
of  them;  for  long  deductions  from  remote  principles  is  what 
they  have  not  been  used  to,  and  cannot  manage. 

What  then !  can  grown  men  never  be  improved  or  enlarged 
in  their  understandings  ?  I  say  not  so ;  but  this  I  think  I  may 
say,  that  it  will  not  be  done  without  industry  and  application, 
which  will  require  more  time  and  pains  than  grown  men,  set- 
tled in  their  course  of  life,  will  allow  to  it,  and  therefore  very 
seldom  is  done.  And  this  very  capacity  of  attaining  it  by  use 
and  exercise  only  brings  us  back  to  that  which  I  laid  down  be- 
fore, that  it  is  only  practice  that  improves  our  minds  as  well 
as  bodies,  and  we  must  expect  nothing  from  our  understand- 
ings any  further  than  they  are  perfected  by  habits. 

The  Americans  are  not  at  all  born  with  worse  understand- 
ings than  the  Europeans,  though  we  see  none  of  them  have 
such  reaches  in  the  arts  and  sciences.  And  among  the  children 
of  a  poor  countryman  the  lucky  chance  of  education  and  get- 
ting into  the  world  gives  one  infinitely  the  superiority  in  parts 


,24  LOCKE 

over  the  rest,  who,  continuing  at  home,  had  continued  also  just 
of  the  same  size  with  his  brethren. 

He  that  has  to  do  with  young  scholars,  especially  in  mathe- 
matics, may  perceive  how  their  minds  open  by  degrees,  and 
how  it  is  exercise  alone  that  opens  them.  Sometimes  they  will 
stick  a  long  time  at  a  part  of  a  demonstration,  not  for  want  of 
will  or  application,  but  really  for  want  of  perceiving  the  con- 
nection of  two  ideas,  that,  to  one  whose  understanding  is  more 
exercised,  is  as  visible  as  anything  can  be.  The  same  would 
be  with  a  grown  man  beginning  to  study  mathematics — the 
understanding,  for  want  of  use,  often  sticks  in  a  very  plain  way 
— and  he  himself  that  is  so  puzzled,  when  he  comes  to  see  the 
connection,  wonders  what  it  was  he  stuck  at  in  a  case  so  plain. 


OF    PREJUDICES 

EVERYONE  is  forward  to  complain  of  the  prejudices  that 
mislead  other  men  or  parties,  as  if  he  were  free,  and 
had  none  of  his  own.  This  being  objected  on  all  sides, 
it  is  agreed  that  it  is  a  fault  and  a  hinderance  to  knowledge. 
What,  now,  is  the  cure?  No  other  but  this — that  every  man 
should  let  alone  others'  prejudices,  and  examine  his  own.  No- 
body is  convinced  of  his  by  the  accusation  of  another:  he  re- 
criminates by  the  same  rule,  and  is  clear.  The  only  way  to 
remove  this  great  cause  of  ignorance  and  error  out  of  the  world 
is  for  everyone  impartially  to  examine  himself.  If  others  will 
not  deal  fairly  with  their  own  minds,  does  that  make  my  errors 
truths,  or  ought  it  to  make  me  in  love  with  them,  and  willing  to 
impose  on  myself?  If  others  love  cataracts  on  their  eyes, 
should  that  hinder  me  from  couching  of  mine  as  soon  as  I 
could?  Everyone  declares  against  blindness,  and  yet  who  al- 
most is  not  fond  of  that  which  dims  his  sight,  and  keeps  the 
clear  light  out  of  his  mind,  which  should  lead  him  into  truth 
and  knowledge?  False  and  doubtful  positions,  relied  upon  as 
unquestionable  maxims,  keep  those  in  the  dark  from  truth  who 
build  on  them.  Such  are  usually  the  prejudices  imbibed  from 
education,  party,  reverence,  fashion,  interest,  etc.  This  is  the 
mote  which  everyone  sees  in  his  brother's  eye,  but  never  re- 
gards the  beam  in  his  own.  For  who  is  there,  almost,  that  is 
ever  brought  fairly  to  examine  his  own  principles,  and  see 
whether  they  are  such  as  will  bear  the  trial?  But  yet  this 
should  be  one  of  the  first  things  everyone  should  set  about,  and 
be  scrupulous  in,  who  would  rightly  conduct  his  understand- 
ing in  the  search  of  truth  and  knowledge. 

To  those  who  are  willing  to  get  rid  of  this  great  hinderance 
of  knowledge  (for  to  such  only  I  write) — to  those  who  would 
shake  off  this  great  and  dangerous  impostor  prejudice,  who 
dresses  up  falsehood  in  the  likeness  of  truth,  and  so  dexterously 

125 


126  LOCKE 

hoodwinks  men's  minds,  as  to  keep  them  in  the  dark,  with  a 
behef  that  they  are  more  in  the  Hght  than  any  that  do  not  see 
with  their  eyes,  I  shall  offer  this  one  mark  whereby  prejudice 
may  be  known.  He  that  is  strongly  of  any  opinion  must  sup- 
pose (unless  he  be  self-condemned)  that  his  persuasion  is  built 
upon  good  grounds,  and  that  his  assent  is  no  greater  than  what 
the  evidence  of  the  truth  he  holds  forces  him  to ;  and  that  they 
are  arguments,  and  not  inclination  of  fancy,  that  make  him 
so  confident  and  positive  in  his  tenets.  Now  if,  after  all  his 
profession,  he  cannot  bear  any  opposition  to  his  opinion — if  he 
cannot  so  much  as  give  a  patient  hearing,  much  less  examine 
and  weigh  the  arguments  on  the  other  side — does  he  not  plainly 
confess  it  is  prejudice  governs  him?  And  it  is  not  the  evidence 
of  truth,  but  some  lazy  anticipation,  some  beloved  presumption, 
that  he  desires  to  rest  undisturbed  in.  For  if  what  he  holds 
be  as  he  gives  out,  well  fenced  with  evidence,  and  he  sees  it  to 
be  true,  what  need  he  fear  to  put  it  to  the  proof  ?  If  his  opinion 
be  settled  upon  a  firm  foundation,  if  the  arguments  that  support 
it,  and  have  obtained  his  assent,  be  clear,  good,  and  convincing, 
why  should  he  be  shy  to  have  it  tried  whether  they  be  proof  or 
not  ?  He  whose  assent  goes  beyond  his  evidence  owes  this  ex- 
cess of  his  adherence  only  to  prejudice,  and  does  in  effect  own 
it  when  he  refuses  to  hear  what  is  offered  against  it ;  declaring 
thereby  that  it  is  not  evidence  he  seeks,  but  the  quiet  enjoy- 
ment of  the  opinion  he  is  fond  of,  with  a  forward  condemnation 
of  all  that  may  stand  in  opposition  to  it,  unheard  and  unex- 
amined. 


OF  OBSERVATION 

PARTICULAR  matters  of  fact  are  the  undoubted  founda- 
tions on  which  our  civil  and  natural  knowledge  is  built: 
the  benefit  the  understanding  makes  of  them  is  to  draw 
from  them  conclusions  which  may  be  as  standing  rules  of 
knowledge,  and  consequently  of  practice.  The  mind  often 
makes  not  that  benefit  it  should  of  the  information  it  receives 
from  the  accounts  of  civil  or  natural  historians,  in  being  too 
forward,  or  too  slow,  in  making  observations  on  the  particular 
facts  recorded  in  them. 

There  are  those  who  are  very  assiduous  in  reading,  and  yet 
do  not  much  advance  their  knowledge  by  it.  They  are  de- 
lighted with  the  stories  that  are  told,  and  perhaps  can  tell  them 
again,  for  they  make  all  they  read  nothing  but  history  to  them- 
selves ;  but  not  reflecting  on  it,  not  making  to  themselves  ob- 
servations from  what  they  read,  they  are  very  little  improved 
by  all  that  crowd  of  particulars  that  either  pass  through,  or 
lodge  themselves  in,  their  understandings.  They  dream  on  in 
a  constant  course  of  reading  and  cramming  themselves,  but, 
not  digesting  anything,  it  produces  nothing  but  a  heap  of  crudi- 
ties. 

If  their  memories  retain  well,  one  may  say  they  have  the 
materials  of  knowledge;  but,  like  those  for  building,  they  are 
of  no  advantage  if  there  be  no  other  use  made  of  them  but  to 
let  them  lie  heaped  up  together.  Opposite  to  these,  there  are 
others  who  lose  the  improvement  they  should  make  of  matters 
of  fact  by  a  quite  contrary  conduct.  They  are  apt  to  draw  gen- 
eral conclusions  and  raise  axioms  from  every  particular  they 
meet  with.  These  make  as  little  true  benefit  of  history  as  the 
other,  nay,  being  of  forward  and  active  spirits,  receive  more 
harm  by  it ;  it  being  of  worse  consequence  to  steer  one's 
thoughts  by  a  wrong  rule  than  to  have  none  at  all :  error  doing 
to  busy  men  much  more  harm  than  ignorance  to  the  slow  and 

127 


128  LOCKE 

sluggish.  Between  these,  those  seem  to  do  best  who,  taking 
material  and  useful  hints,  sometimes  from  single  matters  of 
fact,  carry  them  in  their  minds  to  be  judged  of,  by  what  they 
shall  find  in  history  to  confirm  or  reverse  these  imperfect  ob- 
servations ;  which  may  be  established  into  rules  fit  to  be  relied 
on,  when  they  are  justified  by  a  sufficient  and  wary  induction 
of  particulars.  He  that  makes  no  such  reflections  on  what  he 
reads  only  loads  his  mind  with  a  rhapsody  of  tales,  fit  in  winter 
nights  for  the  entertainment  of  others ;  and  he  that  will  im- 
prove every  matter  of  fact  into  a  maxim  will  abound  in  contrary 
observations  that  can  be  of  no  other  use  but  to  perplex  and 
pudder  him  if  he  compares  them ;  or  else  to  misguide  him,  if 
he  gives  himself  up  to  the  authority  of  that,  which  for  its  nov- 
elty, or  for  some  other  fancy,  best  pleases  him. 


OF   READING 

THIS  is  that  which  I  think  great  readers  are  apt  to  be  mis- 
taken in.  Those  who  have  read  of  everything  are 
thought  to  understand  everything  too ;  but  it  is  not  al- 
ways so.  Reading  furnishes  the  mind  only  with  materials  of 
knowledge :  it  is  thinking  makes  what  we  read  ours.  We  are 
of  the  ruminating  kind,  and  it  is  not  enough  to  cram  ourselyes 
with  a  great  load  of  collections ;  unless  we  chew  them  over 
again,  they  will  not  give  us  strength  and  nourishment.  There 
are  indeed  in  some  writers  visible  instances  of  deep  thought, 
close  and  acute  reasoning,  and  ideas  well  pursued.  The  light 
these  would  give  would  be  of  great  use  if  their  readers  would 
observe  and  imitate  them :  all  the  rest  at  best  are  but  particulars 
fit  to  be  turned  into  knowledge ;  but  that  can  be  done  only  by 
our  own  meditation,  and  examining  the  reach,  force,  and  coher- 
ence of  w^hat  is  said ;  and  then,  as  far  as  we  apprehend  and  see 
the  connection  of  ideas,  so  far  it  is  ours ;  without  that,  it  is  but 
so  much  loose  matter  floating  in  our  brain.  The  memory  may 
be  stored,  but  the  judgment  is  little  better,  and  the  stock  of 
knowledge  not  increased,  by  being  able  to  repeat  what  others 
have  said,  or  produce  the  arguments  we  have  found  in  them. 
Such  a  knowledge  as  this  is  but  a  knowledge  by  hearsay,  and 
the  ostentation  of  it  is  at  best  but  talking  by  rote,  and  very  often 
upon  weak  and  wrong  principles.  For  all  that  is  to  be  found 
in  books  is  not  built  upon  true  foundations,  nor  always  rightly 
deduced  from  the  principles  it  is  pretended  to  be  built  on.  Such 
an  examen  as  is  requisite  to  discover  that,  every  reader's  mind 
is  not  forward  to  make;  especially  in  those  who  have  given 
themselves  up  to  a  party,  and  only  hunt  for  what  they  can  scrape 
together  that  may  favor  and  support  the  tenets  of  it.  Such 
men  wilfully  exclude  themselves  from  truth,  and  from  all  true 
benefit  to  be  received  by  reading.  Others,  of  more  indiflfer- 
ency,  often  want  attention  and  industry.     The  mind  is  back- 

129 


130 


LOCKE 


ward  in  itself  to  be  at  the  pains  to  trace  every  argfiiment  to  its 
original,  and  to  see  upon  what  basis  it  stands,  and  how  firmly ; 
but  yet  it  is  this  that  gives  so  much  the  advantage  to  one  man 
more  than  another  in  reading.  The  mind  should,  by  severe 
rules,  be  tied  down  to  this,  at  first,  uneasy  task ;  use  and  exer- 
cise will  give  it  facility.  So  that  those  who  are  accustomed  to 
it,  readily,  as  it  were  with  one  cast  of  the  eye,  take  a  view  of 
the  argument,  and  presently,  in  most  cases,  see  where  it  bot- 
toms. Those  who  have  got  this  faculty,  one  may  say,  have  got 
the  true  key  of  books,  and  the  clew  to  lead  them  through  the 
mizmaze  of  variety  of  opinions  and  authors  to  truth  and  cer- 
tainty. This  young  beginners  should  be  entered  in,  and  shown 
the  use  of,  that  they  might  profit  by  their  reading.  Those  who 
are  strangers  to  it  will  be  apt  to  think  it  too  great  a  clog  in  the 
way  of  men's  studies ;  and  they  will  suspect  they  shall  make  but 
small  progress,  if,  in  the  books  they  read,  they  must  stand  to 
examine  and  unravel  every  argument,  and  follow  it  step  by  step 
up  to  its  original. 

I  answer,  this  is  a  good  objection,  and  ought  to  weigh  with 
those  whose  reading  is  designed  for  much  talk  and  little  knowl- 
edge, and  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  it.  But  I  am  here  inquiring 
into  the  conduct  of  the  understanding  in  its  progress  towards 
knowledge;  and  to  those  who  aim  at  that,  I  may  say,  that  he 
who  fair  and  softly  goes  steadily  forward  in  a  course  that  points 
right,  will  sooner  be  at  his  journey's  end,  than  he  that  runs 
after  everyone  he  meets,  though  he  gallop  all  day  full  speed. 

To  which,  let  me  add  that  this  way  of  thinking  on,  and  profit- 
ing by,  what  we  read,  will  be  a  clog  and  rub  to  anyone  only  in 
the  beginning ;  when  custom  and  exercise  have  made  it  familiar, 
it  will  be  despatched,  in  most  occasions,  without  resting  or 
interruption  in  the  course  of  our  reading.  The  motions  and 
views  of  a  mind  exercised  that  way  are  wonderfully  quick ;  and 
a  man  used  to  such  sort  of  reflections  sees  as  much  at  one 
glimpse  as  would  require  a  long  discourse  to  lay  before  an- 
other, and  make  out  an  entire  and  gradual  deduction.  Besides 
that,  when  the  first  difficulties  are  over,  the  delight  and  sensible 
advantage  it  brings  mightily  encourage  and  enliven  the  mind 
in  reading,  which,  without  this,  is  very  improperly  called  study. 


SOME  THOUGHTS  CONCERNING  EDUCATION 

A  SOUND  mind  in  a  sound  body  is  a  short  but  full  de- 
scription of  a  happy  state  in  this  world.  He  that  has 
these  two  has  little  more  to  wish  for,  and  he  that  wants 
either  of  them  will  be  but  little  the  better  for  anything  else. 
Men's  happiness  or  misery  is  most  part  of  their  own  making. 
He  whose  mind  directs  not  wisely  will  never  take  the  right 
away,  and  he  whose  body  is  crazy  and  feeble  will  never  be  able 
to  advance  in  it.  I  confess  there  are  some  men's  constitutions 
of  body  and  mind  so  vigorous  and  well  framed  by  nature  that 
they  need  not  much  assistance  from  others,  but  by  the  strength 
of  their  natural  genius,  they  are  from  their  cradles  carried 
towards  what  is  excellent ;  and  by  the  privilege  of  their  happy 
constitutions,  are  able  to  do  wonders.  But  examples  of  this 
kind  are  but  few,  and  I  think  I  may  say,  that  of  all  the  men  wc 
meet  with,  nine  parts  of  ten  are  what  they  are,  good  or  evil, 
useful  or  not,  by  their  education.  It  is  that  which  makes  the 
great  difference  in  mankind.  The  little  or  almost  insensible 
impressions  on  our  tender  infancies  have  very  important  and 
lasting  consequences.  And  there  it  is,  as  in  the  fountains  of 
some  rivers,  where  a  gentle  application  of  the  hand  turns  the 
flexible  waters  into  channels,  that  make  them  take  quite  con- 
trary courses ;  and  by  this  little  direction,  given  them  at  first 
in  the  source,  they  receive  different  tendencies,  and  arrive  at 
last  at  very  remote  and  distant  places. 

Those  that  intend  ever  to  govern  their  children  should  begin 
it  whilst  they  are  very  little,  and  look  that  they  perfectly  comply 
with  the  will  of  their  parents.  Would  you  have  your  son  obedi- 
ent to  you  when  past  a  child,  be  sure  then  to  establish  the  au- 
thority of  a  father  as  soon  as  he  is  capable  of  submission,  and 
can  understand  in  whose  power  he  is.  If  you  would  have  him 
stand  in  awe  of  you,  imprint  it  in  his  infancy;  and  as  he  ap- 

»3i 


132  LOCKE 

proaches  more  to  a  man,  admit  him  nearer  to  your  familiarityX 
so  shall  you  have  him  your  obedient  subject  (as  is  fit)  whilst 
he  is  a  child,  and  your  affectionate  friend  when  he  is  a  man. 
For  methinks  they  mightily  misplace  the  treatment  due  to  their 
children,  who  are  indulgent  and  familiar  when  they  are  little, 
but  severe  to  them,  and  keep  them  at  a  distance  when  they  are 
grown  up.  For  liberty  and  indulgence  can  do  no  good  to  chil- 
dren; their  want  of  judgment  makes  them  stand  in  need  of 
restraint  and  discipline;  and,  on  the  contrary,  imperiousness 
and  severity  is  but  an  ill  w^ay  of  treating  men  who  have  reason 
of  their  own  to  guide  them,  unless  you  have  a  mind  to  make 
your  children,  when  grow^n  up,  weary  of  you,  and  secretly  to 
say  within  yourselves,  "  When  will  you  die,  father  ?  " 

The  child's  natural  genius  and  constitution  must  be  consid- 
ered in  a  right  education.  We  must  not  hope  wholly  to  change 
their  original  tempers,  nor  make  the  gay  pensive  and  grave,  nor 
the  melancholy  sportive,  without  spoiling  them.  God  has 
stamped  certain  characters  upon  men's  minds,  which,  like  their 
shapes,  may  perhaps  be  a  little  mended,  but  can  hardly  be 
totally  altered  and  transformed  into  the  contrary.  He,  there- 
fore, that  is  about  children  should  w^ell  study  their  natures  and 
aptitudes,  and  see  by  often  trials  what  turn  they  easily  take,  and 
what  becomes  them,  observe  what  their  native  stock  is,  how  it 
may  be  improved,  and  what  it  is  fit  for.  He  should  consider 
what  they  want,  whether  they  be  capable  of  having  it  wrought 
into  them  by  industry,  and  incorporated  there  by  practice,  and 
whether  it  be  worth  while  to  endeavor  it.  For  in  many  cases 
all  that  we  can  do,  or  should  aim  at,  is  to  make  the  best  of 
what  nature  has  given,  to  prevent  the  vices  and  faults  to  which 
such  a  constitution  is  most  inclined,  and  give  it  all  the  advan- 
tages it  is  capable  of.  Everyone's  natural  genius  should  be  car- 
ried as  far  as  it  could ;  but  to  attempt  the  putting  another  upon 
him  will  be  but  labor  in  vain ;  and  what  is  so  plastered  on  will 
at  best  fit  but  untowardly,  and  have  always  hanging  to  it  the 
ungracefulness  of  constraint  and  affectation. 

Of  all  the  ways  whereby  children  are  to  be  instructed  and 
their  manners  formed,  the  plainest,  easiest,  and  most  efficacious 
is  to  set  before  their  eyes  the  examples  of  those  things  you 
would  have  them  do  or  avoid,  which,  when  they  are  pointed  out 
to  them,  in  the  practice  of  persons  within  their  knowledge,  with 


SOME   THOUGHTS   CONCERNING   EDUCATION       133 

some  reflections  on  their  beauty  and  unbecomingness,  are  of 
more  force  to  draw  or  deter  their  imitation,  than  any  discourses 
which  can  be  made  to  them.  Virtues  and  vices  can  by  no  words 
be  so  plainly  set  before  their  understandings  as  the  actions  of 
other  men  will  show  them,  when  you  direct  their  observation, 
and  bid  them  view  this  or  that  good  or  bad  quality  in  their 
practice.  And  the  beauty  or  uncomeliness  of  many  things,  in 
good  and  ill  breeding,  will  be  better  learned,  and  make  deeper 
impressions  on  them,  in  the  examples  of  others,  than  from  any 
rules  or  instructions  which  can  be  given  about  them.  This  is 
a  method  to  be  used,  not  only  whilst  they  are  young,  but  to  be 
continued  even  as  long  as  they  shall  be  under  another's  tuition 
or  conduct ;  nay,  I  know  not  whether  it  be  not  the  best  way  to  be 
used  by  a  father,  as  long  as  he  should  think  fit,  on  any  occasion, 
to  reform  anything  he  wishes  mended  in  his  son ;  nothing  sink- 
ing so  gently,  and  so  deep,  into  men's  minds,  as  example.  And 
what  ill  they  either  overlook  or  indulge  in  themselves  they  can- 
not but  dislike,  and  be  ashamed  of,  when  it  is  set  before  them 
in  another. 

The  great  work  of  a  governor  is  to  fashion  the  carriage,  and 
form  the  mind ;  to  settle  in  his  pupil  good  habits,  and  the  prin- 
ciples of  virtue  and  wisdom ;  to  give  him  by  little  and  little  a 
view  of  mankind,  and  work  him  into  a  love  and  imitation  of 
what  is  excellent  and  praiseworthy ;  and  in  the  prosecution  of 
it,  to  give  him  vigor,  activity,  and  industry.  The  studies  which 
he  sets  him  upon  are  but  as  it  were  the  exercises  of  his  facul- 
ties and  employment  of  his  time,  to  keep  him  from  sauntering 
and  idleness,  to  teach  him  application,  and  accustom  him  to 
take  pains,  and  to  give  him  some  little  taste  of  what  his  own 
industry  must  perfect. 

Latin  I  look  upon  as  absolutely  necessary  to  a  gentleman ;  and 
indeed  custom,  which  prevails  over  everything,  has  made  it  so 
much  a  part  of  education  that  even  those  children  are  whipped 
to  it,  and  made  spend  many  hours  of  their  precious  time  un- 
easily in  Latin,  who,  after  they  are  once  gone  from  school,  are 
never  to  have  more  to  do  with  it  as  long  as  they  live.  Can 
there  be  anything  more  ridiculous  than  that  a  father  should 
waste  his  own  money  and  his  son's  time  in  setting  him  to  learn 
the  Roman  language,  when  at  the  same  time  he  designs  him 
for  a  trade,  wherein  he,  having  no  use  for  Latin,  fails  not  to 


134  LOCKE 

forget  that  little  which  he  brought  from  school,  and  which  it  is 
ten  to  one  he  abhors  for  the  ill-usage  it  procured  him  ? 

The  great  skill  of  a  teacher  is  to  get  and  keep  the  attention 
of  his  scholar ;  whilst  he  has  that,  he  is  sure  to  advance  as  fast 
as  the  learner's  abilities  will  carry  him ;  and  without  that,  all 
his  bustle  and  pudder  will  be  to  little  or  no  purpose.  To  attain 
this,  he  should  make  the  child  comprehend  (as  much  as  may 
be)  the  usefulness  of  what  he  teaches  him,  and  let  him  see, 
by  what  he  has  learned,  that  he  can  do  something  which  he 
could  not  before ;  something  which  gives  him  some  power 
and  real  advantage  above  others  who  are  ignorant  of  it.  To 
this  he  should  add  sweetness  in  all  his  instructions,  and,  by  a 
certain  tenderness  in  his  whole  carriage,  make  the  child  sen- 
sible that  he  loves  him,  and  designs  nothing  but  his  good,  the 
only  way  to  beget  love  in  the  child,  which  will  make  him 
hearken  to  his  lessons,  and  relish  what  he  teaches  him.  Noth- 
ing but  obstinacy  should  meet  with  any  imperiousness,  or  rough 
usage.  All  other  faults  should  be  corrected  with  a  gentle  hand ; 
and  kind,  engaging  words  will  work  better  and  more  effectu- 
ally upon  a  willing  mind,  and  even  prevent  a  good  deal  of  that 
perverseness  which  rough  and  imperious  usage  often  produces 
in  well-disposed  and  generous  minds.  It  is  true  obstinacy  and 
wilful  neglects  must  be  mastered,  even  though  it  costs  blows 
to  do  it.  But  I  am  apt  to  think  perverseness  in  the  pupils  is 
often  the  effect  of  frowardness  in  the  tutor ;  and  that  most 
children  would  seldom  have  deserved  blows,  if  needless  and 
misapplied  roughness  had  not  taught  them  ill-nature,  and  given 
them  an  aversion  for  their  teacher,  and  all  that  comes  from  him. 

To  write  and  speak  correctly  gives  a  grace,  and  gains  a  fa- 
vorable attention  to  what  one  has  to  say.  And  since  it  is  Eng- 
lish that  an  English  gentleman  will  have  constant  use  of,  that 
is  the  language  he  should  chiefly  cultivate,  and  wherein  most 
care  should  be  taken  to  polish  and  perfect  his  style.  To  speak 
or  write  better  Latin  than  English  may  make  a  man  be  talked 
of,  but  he  will  find  it  more  to  his  purpose  to  express  himself 
well  in  his  own  tongue  that  he  uses  every  moment,  than  to  have 
the  vain  commendation  of  others  for  a  very  insignificant 
quality.  This  I  find  universally  neglected,  nor  no  care  taken 
anywhere  to  improve  young  men  in  their  own  language,  that 
they  may  thoroughly  understand  and  be  masters  of  it.     If  any- 


SOME  THOUGHTS   CONCERNING  EDUCATION       135 

one  among  us  have  a  facility  or  purity  more  than  ordinary  in 
his  mother  tongue,  it  is  owing  to  chance,  or  his  genius,  or  any- 
thing, rather  than  to  his  education,  or  any  care  of  his  teacher. 
To  mind  what  English  his  pupil  speaks  or  writes  is  below  the 
dignity  of  one  bred  up  amongst  Greek  and  Latin,  though  he 
have  but  little  of  them  himself.  These  are  the  learned  lan- 
guages, fit  only  for  learned  men  to  meddle  with  and  teach; 
English  is  the  language  of  the  illiterate  vulgar. 


THE    INSTABILITY    OF    HUMAN   GLORY 


DESCRIPTION    OF    A    QUACK    DOCTOR 


BY 


DANIEL    DEFOE 


'?— Vol.  57 


DANIEL    DEFOE 

1661 — 1731 

Defoe  was  an  irrepressible  journalist,  for  in  enterprise,  energy,  and 
rapidity  of  execution  he  appears  to  have  equalled  the  nimble-witted 
newsgatherers  of  to-day.  Not  only  was  he  a  journalist  in  spirit,  but 
also  in  fact,  as  he  was  connected  for  many  years  with  the  political  news- 
papers that  sprang  into  existence  near  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  and 
at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Defoe  was  born  in  1661, 
and  before  he  was  twenty-one  he  had  written  a  book;  at  the  age  of 
twenty-three  he  took  up  arms  as  a  follower  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth; 
a  few  years  later  he  was  an  ardent  advocate  of  the  Revolution ;  in 
1692  he  was  declared  a  bankrupt,  and  was  forced  to  flee  from  his 
creditors.  In  the  gaps  of  leisure  from  his  more  pressing  business  he 
was  an  author  and  a  journalist,  and  the  vehemence  of  his  political 
articles  frequently  made  him  the  object  of  prosecution.  It  was  with 
such  stirring  side-issues  that  young  Defoe  played  his  part  in  the  literary 
arena.  Debarred  from  the  aristocratic  community  of  letters  because 
of  his  lack  of  a  classical  education,  encountering  failure  after  failure  in 
business,  harassed  by  political  enemies,  he  faced  his  difficulties  with 
stoical  courage  and  went  his  busy  way,  untroubled  and  unabashed. 
From  him  emanated  such  literary  work  as  might  be  expected  from  a 
man  of  strong  realistic  genius,  educated  as  a  tradesman,  and  placed 
in  his  peculiar  circumstances.  He  certainly  did  not  have  posterity  in 
his  mind's  eye  when  he  wrote  his  two  hundred  and  ten  volumes  of 
fiction,  biography,  and  essays.  He  was  a  writer  for  the  hour,  and  for 
the  pecuniary  reward  that  his  work  brought.  All  his  work  that  is 
preserved  shows  his  strong,  limited,  realistic,  and  vivid  imagination. 
He  had  the  power  of  wrapping  the  cloak  of  realism  around  a  bare 
fiction  as  it  has  been  possessed  by  no  other  writer,  before  or  since. 
Millions  of  people  still  believe  his  "  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe  " 
to  be  the  actual  experiences  of  a  shipwrecked  sailor.  His  intensely 
vital,  simple,  and  serious  "  History  of  the  Plague  of  1666  in  London  " 
remains  to  this  day  the  best  and  most  accurate  account.  Despite  the 
obvious  defects,  the  crudities  of  style,  the  almost  mechanical  efforts 
to  gain  attention  that  mar  all  of  Defoe's  work,  there  can  certainly  be 
no  question  that  he  possessed  an  originality  of  a  very  high  order  that 
has  never  been  successfully  imitated.  The  essays  given  here  are  from 
his  journalistic  writings.    Defoe  died  in  1731. 


138 


THE  INSTABILITY  OF  HUMAN  GLORY 

SIR,  I  have  employed  myself  of  late  pretty  much  in  the  study 
of  history/  and  have  been  reading  the  stories  of  the  great 
men  of  past  ages,  Alexander  the  Great,  Julius  C^sar,  the 
great  Augustus,  and  many  more  down,  down,  down,  to  the  still 
greater  Louis  XIV,  and  even  to  the  still  greatest  John,  Duke 
of  Marlborough.^  In  my  way  I  met  with  Tamerlane^  the 
Scythian,  Tomornbejus*  the  Egyptian,  Solyman^  the  Magnifi- 
cent, and  others  of  the  Mahometan  or  Ottoman  race ;  and  after 
all  the  great  things  they  have  done  I  find  it  said  of  them  all,  one 
after  another,  AND  THEN  HE  DIED,  all  dead,  dead,  dead! 
hie  jacet  is  the  finishing  part  of  their  history.  Some  lie  in  the 
bed  of  honor,  and  some  in  honor's  truckle-bed;  some  were 
bravely  slain  in  battle  on  the  field  of  honor,  some  in  the  storm 
of  a  counterscarp  and  died  in  the  ditch  of  honor ;  some  here, 
some  there ; — the  bones  of  the  bold  and  the  brave,  the  cowardly 
and  the  base,  the  hero  and  the  scoundrel,  are  heaped  up  to- 
gether ; — there  they  lie  in  oblivion,  and  under  the  ruins  of  the 
earth,  undistinguished  from  one  another,  nay,  even  from  the 
common  earth. 

"  Huddled  in  dirt  the  blust'ring  engine  lies, 
That  was  so  great,  and  thought  himself  so  wise." 

How  many  hundreds  of  thousands  of  the  bravest  fellows  then 
in  the  world  lie  on  heaps  in  the  ground,  whose  bones  are  to 
this  day  ploughed  up  by  the  rustics,  or  dug  up  by  the  laborer, 

1  This  essay  appeared  on  July  21,  1722,  whole  world  in  support  of  what  he  re- 
in "  The  Original  Weekly  Journal  and  garded  as  the  true  Mahometan  faith. 
Saturday's  Post,"  started  by  Applebee  He  defeated  the  Ottoman  Sultan,  and 
on  October  2,  1714.  From  1720  to  1726  died  when  preparing  to  invade  China. 
Defoe  contributed  weekly  articles  in  the  *  Tumanbeg  or  Tumanbai,  the  last 
form  of  "  letters  introductory."  These  Mameluke  Sultan,  was  defeated  and  put 
letters— admittedly  the  prototypes  of  to  death  by  Selim  in  1517. 
"  leading  articles  "—were  first  intro-  '  Suleiman  the  Magnificent,  the  Law- 
duced  by  Defoe  in  the  sixty-eighth  num-  giver  (1490-1566),  was  the  greatest  con- 
ber  of  Mist's  "  Journal,"  1718.  structor    of    the    Ottoman    power.    The 

*  The  duke  died  five  weeks  before  the  capture  of  Rhodes,  the  invasion  of  Hun- 
date  of  Defoe's  essay.  gary,  and  the  siege  of  Vienna  were  bis 

•Timour  (1336-1405)  made  war  on  the  most  famous  exploits. 

139 


I40  DEFOE 

and  the  earth  their  more  noble  vital  parts  are  converted  to  has 
been  perhaps  applied  to  the  meanest  uses ! 

How  have  we  screened  the  ashes  of  heroes  to  make  our  mor- 
tar, and  mingled  the  remains  of  a  Roman  general  to  make  a 
hog-sty !  Where  are  the  ashes  of  a  Caesar,  and  the  remains  of  a 
Pompey,  a  Scipio,  or  a  Hannibal  ?  All  are  vanished,  they  and 
their  very  monuments  are  mouldered  into  earth,  their  dust  is 
lost,  and  their  place  knows  them  no  more.  They  live  only  in 
the  immortal  writings  of  their  historians  and  poets,  the  re- 
nowned flatterers  of  the  age  they  lived  in,  and  who  have  made 
us  think  of  the  persons,  not  as  they  really  were,  but  as  they  were 
pleased  to  represent  them. 

As  the  greatest  men,  so  even  the  longest-lived.  The  Me- 
thusalems  of  the  antediluvian  world — the  accounts  of  them  all 
end  with  the  same :  Methusalem  lived  nine  hundred  sixty  and 
nine  years  and  begat  sons  and  daughters — and  what  then? 
AND  THEN  HE  DIED. 

"  Death  like  an  overflowing  stream 
Sweeps  us  away;  our  life's  a  dream." 

We  are  now  solemnizing  the  obsequies  of  the  great  Marl- 
borough ;  all  his  victories,  all  his  glories,  his  great  projected 
schemes  of  war,  his  uninterrupted  series  of  conquests,  which 
are  called  his,  as  if  he  alone  had  fought  and  conquered  by  his 
arm,  what  so  many  men  obtained  for  him  with  their  blood — all 
is  ended,  where  other  men,  and,  indeed,  where  all  men  ended: 
HE  IS  DEAD. 

Not  all  his  immense  wealth,  the  spoils  and  trophies  of  his 
enemies,  the  bounty  of  his  grateful  mistress,  and  the  treasure 
amassed  in  war  and  peace,  not  all  that  mighty  bulk  of  gold — 
which  some  suggest  is  such,  and  so  great,  as  I  care  not  to  men- 
tion— could  either  give  him  life,  or  continue  it  one  moment,  but 
he  is  dead  ;  and  some  say  the  great  treasure  he  was  possessed  of 
here  had  one  strange  particular  quality  attending  it,  which 
might  have  been  very  dissatisfying  to  him  if  he  had  considered 
much  on  it,  namely,  that  he  could  not  carry  much  of  it  with  him. 

We  have  now  nothing  left  us  of  this  great  man  that  we  can 
converse  with  but  his  monument  and  his  history.  He  is  now 
numbered  among  things  passed.  The  funeral  as  well  as  the 
battles  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  are  like  to  adorn  our  houses 


THE   INSTABILITY   OF  HUMAN   GLORY  141 

in  sculpture  as  things  equally  gay  and  to  be  looked  on  with 
pleasure.  Such  is  the  end  of  human  glory,  and  so  little  is  the 
world  able  to  do  for  the  greatest  men  that  come  into  it,  and  for 
the  greatest  merit  those  men  can  arrive  to. 

What  then  is  the  work  of  life  ?  What  the  business  of  great 
men,  that  pass  the  stage  of  the  world  in  seeming  triumph  as 
these  men,  we  call  heroes,  have  done?  Is  it  to  grow  great  in 
the  mouth  of  fame  and  take  up  many  pages  in  history?  Alas! 
that  is  no  more  than  making  a  tale  for  the  reading  of  posterity 
till  it  turns  into  fable  and  romance.  Is  it  to  furnish  subject  to 
the  poets,  and  live  in  their  immortal  rhymes,  as  they  call  them? 
That  is,  in  short,  no  more  than  to  be  hereafter  turned  into  ballad 
and  song  and  be  sung  by  old  women  to  quiet  children,  or  at 
the  corner  of  a  street  to  gather  crowds  in  aid  of  the  pickpocket 
and  the  poor.  Or  is  their  business  rather  to  add  virtue  and 
piety  to  their  glory,  which  alone  will  pass  them  into  eternity 
and  make  them  truly  immortal  ?  What  is  glory  without  virtue  ? 
A  great  man  without  religion  is  no  more  than  a  great  beast 
without  a  soul.  What  is  honor  without  merit  ?  And  what  can 
be  called  true  merit  but  that  which  makes  a  person  be  a  good 
man  as  well  as  a  great  man  ? 

If  we  believe  in  a  future  state  of  Hfe,  a  place  for  the  re- 
wards of  good  men  and  for  the  punishment  of  the  haters  of 
virtue,  how  few  of  heroes  and  famous  men  crowd  in  among  the 
last!  How  few  crowned  heads  wear  the  crowns  of  immortal 
felicity ! 

Let  no  man  envy  the  great  and  glorious  men,  as  we  call  them ! 
Could  we  see  them  now,  how  many  of  them  would  move  our 
pity  rather  than  call  for  our  congratulations!  These  few 
thoughts,  sir,  I  send  to  prepare  your  readers'  minds  when  they 
go  to  see  the  magnificent  funeral  of  the  late  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough. 


DESCRIPTION   OF  A  QUACK   DOCTOR 

MR.  MIST,  passing  occasionally  the  other  day  through  a 
little  village,  at  some  distance  from  town,  I  was  en- 
tertained with  the  view  of  a  very  handsome  equipage 
moving  towards  me.^  The  gravity  of  the  gentleman  who  sat 
in  it,  and  the  eagerness  wherewith  the  coachman  drove  along, 
engaged  my  whole  attention  ;  and  I  immediately  concluded  that 
it  could  be  nothing  less  than  some  minister  of  state,  who  was 
posting  this  way  upon  some  very  important  affair.  They  were 
now  got  about  the  middle  of  the  place,  when  making  a  full 
stand,  the  footman,  deserting  his  station  behind  and  making 
up  abreast  of  his  master,  gave  us  a  very  fine  blast  with  a  trum- 
pet. I  was  surprised  to  see  a  skip  ^  transformed  so  speedily 
into  a  trumpeter,  and  began  to  wonder  what  should  be  the 
meaning  of  such  an  unusual  phenomenon ;  when  the  coach- 
man, jumping  from  his  box,  laying  by  his  whip,  and  slipping 
off  his  great  coat,  in  an  instant  rose  up  a  complete  merry- 
andrew.  My  surprise  was  now  heightened,  and  though  honest 
pickle  ^  with  a  world  of  grimace  and  gesticulation  endeavored 
to  move  my  gayety,  I  began  to  be  very  fearful  where  the  meta- 
morphosis might  end.  I  looked  very  earnestly  first  at  the  horse 
and  then  at  the  wheels,  and  expected  every  minute  to  have  seen 
them  take  their  turn  in  the  farce,  and  laying  aside  their  present 
appearances  assume  other  shapes.  By  this  time  the  gentleman, 
who  had  hitherto  appeared  wonderfully  sedate  and  composed, 
began  to  throw  off  his  disguise ;  and  having  pocketed  all  his 
former  modesty  and  demureness,  and  flushed  his  forehead  with 
all  the  impudence  of  a  thorough-paced  quack,  I  immediately 
discovered  him  to  be  a  very  eminent  and  learned  mountebank. 


1  This  essay  appeared  on  December  s 
1719,  in  Nathaniel  Mist's  "  Weekly  Jour 
nal  or  Saturday's  Post,"  started  on  De 
cember  15.  1716.  On  March  29,  1718,  De 
foe  contributed  the  first  leading  article 
The  paper  ran  until  1728,  when  it  passed 
into  the  hands  of  Fog.  Mist  was  a  Jac- 
obite,  and   a  "  vendor   of   Scandal  and 


Sedition,"  and  in  January,  1728,  "  took 
the  opportunity  of  slinking  away  in  a 
mist." 

2  Lackey. 

8  A  harlequin  in  old  comedy.  The 
fuller  form  of  the  word  is  "  pickle-her- 
ring." 


143 


144 


DEFOE 


This  discovery  raised  my  curiosity  as  much  as  it  abated  my 
surprise,  so  that  being  very  desirous  to  hear  what  new  proposal 
the  doctor  had  to  make,  or  what  new  arcanum  in  physic  he  had 
found  out,  I  quitted  my  former  station  and  joined  myself  to 
the  crowd  that  encompassed  him.  After  a  short  preamble,  he 
began  to  open  the  design  of  his  embassy,  setting  forth  at  large 
the  great  affection  which  he  bore  in  particular  to  the  people  of 
that  place;  amplifying  on  his  own  merits  and  qualifications, 
specifying  great  numbers  of  cures  which  he  had  wrought  on 
incurable  distempers,  expatiating  on  the  extreme  danger  of 
being  without  his  physic,  and  offering  health  and  immortality 
to  sale  for  the  price  of  a  tester. 

You'd  have  burst  your  sides,  Mr.  Mist,  had  you  but  heard 
the  fooHsh  allusions,  quaint  expressions,  and  inconsistent  meta- 
phors, which  fell  from  the  mouth  of  this  eloquent  declaimer. 
For  my  part  I  should  have  wondered  where  he  could  have 
raked  up  nonsense  enough  to  furnish  out  such  a  wordy  ha- 
rangue, but  that  I  am  told  he  has  studied  the  "  Flying  Post  "  * 
with  a  great  deal  of  application,  and  that  most  of  the  silly  things 
in  his  speech  are  borrowed  from  that  excellent  author.  Some- 
times he'd  creep  in  the  most  vulgar  phrases  imaginable,  by  and 
by  he'd  soar  out  of  sight  and  traverse  the  spacious  realms  of 
fustian  and  bombast.  He  was,  indeed,  very  sparing  of  his  Latin 
and  Greek,  as  (God  knows)  having  a  very  slender  stock  of  those 
commodities ;  but  then,  for  hard  words  and  terms,  which 
neither  he,  nor  you,  nor  I,  nor  anybody  else  understand,  he 
poured  them  out  in  such  abundance  that  you'd  have  sworn  he 
had  been  rehearsing  some  of  the  occult  philosophy  of  Agrippa  •* 
or  Rosicrusius,  or  reading  a  lecture  out  of  Cabala. 

After  the  doctor  had  given  such  ample  indications  of  the 
greatest  humanity,  skill,  and  erudition,  who  d'ye  think  would 
be  so  incredulous  as  not  to  believe  him,  or  so  uncourteous  as  to 
refuse  to  purchase  one  of  his  packets  ?  Lest  any  of  us,  however, 
should  be  too  tenacious  of  our  money  to  part  with  it  on  these 
considerations,  he  had  one  other  motive  which  did  not  fail  to 
do  the  business ;  this  was  by  persuading  us  that  there  were  the 

*  This  is  obviously  a  thrust  at  Defoe's  "  To    dulness    Ridpath    is    as    dear    as 
enemy,    George    Ridpath,    the    writer   of  Mist." — "  Dunciad."   I.    208. 
the   "  Flying   Post."     Defoe   contributed            *  Henry   Cornelius   Agrippa    (i486,    Go- 
to   another    paper    of    the    same    name,  logne)   was  a  famous  alchemist,  author 
hence    Ridpath  s    scornful  allusion  to  a  of  "  De  Occulta  Philosophia,"  etc. 
*'  Sbam  Flying  Post" 


DESCRIPTION   OF  A   QUACK   DOCTOR  145 

seeds  of  some  malignant  distemper  lurking  in  every  one  of  our 
bodies,  and  that  there  was  nothing  in  nature  could  save  us  but 
some  one  or  other  of  his  medicines.  He  threatened  us  with 
death  in  case  of  refusal,  and  assured  us  with  a  prophetic  air  that 
without  his  physic  every  mother's  son  of  us  would  be  in  our 
graves  by  that  day  twelve-month.  The  poor  people  were  in- 
finitely terrified  with  the  imminent  danger  they  found  them- 
selves under,  but  were  as  much  pleased  to  find  how  easy  it  was 
to  be  evaded ;  so  that,  without  more  ado,  every  man  bought  his 
packet,  and  turned  the  doctor  adrift  to  pursue  further  adven- 
tures. 

The  scene  being  now  removed,  I  was  at  leisure  to  reflect  on 
what  had  passed,  and  could  really  have  either  cry'd  or  laugh'd 
very  heartily  at  what  I  had  seen.  The  arrogance  of  the  doctor 
and  the  silliness  of  his  patients  were  each  of  them  ridiculous 
enough  to  have  set  a  person  of  more  gravity  than  myself  a- 
laughing;  but  then  to  consider  the  tragical  issue  to  which 
these  things  tended,  and  the  fatal  effect  so  many  murthering 
medicines  might  have  on  several  of  His  Majesty's  good  sub- 
jects, would  have  made  the  merriest  buffoon  alive  serious.  I 
have  not  often  observed  a  more  hale,  robust  crowd  of  people 
than  that  which  encircled  this  doughty  doctor ;  methinks  one 
might  have  read  health  in  their  very  faces,  and  there  was  not  a 
countenance  among  them  which  did  not  give  the  lie  to  the  doc- 
tor's suggestions.  Could  but  one  see  a  little  into  futurity,  and 
observe  the  condition  they  will  be  in  a  few  months  hence,  what 
an  alteration  would  one  find!  How  many  of  those  brawny 
youths  are  already  puking  in  chimney  corners?  And  how 
many  rosy  complexioned  girls  are  by  this  time  reduced  to  the 
paleness  of  a  cockney  ? 

I  propose  in  a  Httle  time  to  make  a  second  journey  to  this 
place  in  order  to  see  how  the  doctor's  physic  has  operated.  By 
searching  the  parish  register  and  comparing  the  number  of  fun- 
erals made  weekly  before  the  doctor's  visit  with  those  which  have 
followed,  it  will  be  easy  to  form  an  estimate  of  the  havoc  which 
this  itinerant  man-slayer  made  in  the  space  of  two  hours.  I 
shall  then  proceed  to  compute  the  number  of  quacks  ^  in  the 
three  kingdoms,  from  which  it  will  be  no  hard  matter  to  deter- 

*  Cf.  "  Tatler,"  240,  and  "  Spectator,"  had  reason  to  know  about  the  subject, 
572.  The  latter  by  Zachary  Pearce  is  as  his  "  Review  "  was  filled  with  quack 
largely  similar  to  Defoe's  essay.    Defoe      advertisements. 


146  DEFOE 

mine  the  number  of  people  carried  off  per  annum  by  the  whole 
fraternity.  Lastly,  I  shall  calculate  the  loss  which  the  govern- 
ment sustains  by  the  death  of  every  subject ;  from  all  of  which 
the  immense  damages  accruing  to  His  Majesty  will  evidently 
appear,  and  the  public  will  be  fully  convinced  of  the  truth  of 
what  I  had  heretofore  asserted,  viz.  that  the  quacks  contribute 
more  towards  keeping  us  poor  than  all  our  national  debts,  and 
that  to  suppress  the  former  would  be  an  infallible  means  of  re- 
deeming the  latter.  The  whole  scheme  shall  be  drawn  up  in 
due  form  and  presented  to  the  Parliament  in  the  ensuing  ses- 
sion, and  that  august  assembly,  I  don't  doubt,  will  pay  all  regard 
thereto,  which  the  importance  of  the  subject  and  the  weight 
of  my  argument  shall  require. 

Methinks  the  course  of  justice,  which  has  hitherto  obtained 
among  us,  is  chargeable  with  great  absurdities.  Petty  villains 
are  hanged  or  transported,  while  great  ones  are  suffered  to  pass 
impune.  A  man  cannot  take  a  purse  upon  the  highway,  or  cut 
a  single  throat,  but  he  must  presently  be  called  to  answer  for  it 
at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  perhaps  to  suffer  for  it  at  Tyburn ;  and 
yet,  here  are  wretches  suffered  to  commit  murthers  by  whole- 
sale, and  to  plunder,  not  only  private  persons  and  pockets,  but 
even  the  King  and  the  Exchequer,  without  having  any  ques- 
tions asked !  Pray,  Mr.  Mist,  what  were  gibbets,  gallows,  and 
whipping-posts  made  for? 

But  to  return  to  Doctor  Thornhill.  I  have  had  the  curiosity 
to  examine  several  of  his  medicines  in  a  reverberatory,  reduc- 
ing compounds  into  their  simples  by  a  chemical  analysis,  and 
have  constantly  found  a  considerable  proportion  of  some  poi- 
sonous plant  or  mineral  in  every  one  of  them.  Arsenic,  wolfs- 
bane, mercury,  and  hemlock  are  sine  quibus  non,  and  he  could  no 
more  make  up  a  medicament  without  some  of  these  than  remove 
a  mountain.  Accordingly  as  they  are  variously  mixed  and  dis- 
posed among  other  drugs,  he  gives  them  various  names,  calling 
them  pills,  boluses,  electuaries,  etc.  His  pills  I  would  prescribe 
as  a  succedaneum  to  a  halter,  so  that  such  persons  as  are  weary 
of  this  troublesome  world  and  would  willingly  quit  it  for  a 
better,  but  are  too  squeamish  to  take  up  with  that  queer  old- 
fashioned  recipe  called  hanging,  may  have  their  business  done 
as  securely  and  more  decently  by  some  of  these  excellent  pills. 
His  bolus,  too,  is  very  good  in  its  kind;  I  have  made  experi- 


DESCRIPTION   OF  A   QUACK   DOCTOR  147 

ments  with  it  on  several  animals,  and  find  that  it  poisons  to  a 
miracle.  A  moderate  dose  of  it  has  perfectly  silenced  a  bawl- 
ing dog  that  used  to  disturb  my  morning  slumbers,  and  a  like 
quantity  of  it  has  quieted  several  other  snarling  curs  in  my 
neighborhood.  And  then,  if  you  be  troubled  with  rats,  Mr. 
Mist,  there  the  doctor's  electuary  is  an  infallible  remedy,  as 
I  myself  have  experienced.  I  have  effectually  cleared  my  house 
of  those  troublesome  animals  by  disposing  little  packets  of  it 
in  the  places  they  frequent,  and  do  recommend  it  to  you  and 
your  readers  as  the  most  powerful  ratsbane  in  the  world.  It 
would  be  needless  to  enumerate  all  the  virtues  of  the  doctor's 
several  medicines,  but  I  dare  affirm  that  what  the  ancients 
fabulously  reported  of  Pandora's  box  is  strictly  true  of  the  doc- 
tor's packet,  and  that  it  contains  in  it  the  seeds  and  principles 
of  all  diseases. 

I  must  ask  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mist,  for  being  so  grave  on  so 
ludicrous  a  subject  and  spending  so  many  words  on  an  empty 
jquack.    Mr.  Mist,  Your  humble  servant  Philygeia. 


ON    STYLE 

THE     VINDICATION     OF  ISAAC     BICK- 
ERSTAFF 


BY 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 
1667— 1745 

Jonathan  Swift,  born  in  1667,  was  the  son  of  an  English  gentleman 
settled  in  Ireland ;  he  began  life  as  secretary  to  Sir  William  Temple 
(1689 — 1699).  After  that  statesman's  death  he  obtained  some  small 
preferment  in  Ireland;  but  in  1710  came  back  to  England,  and  for 
some  years  supported  Harley  and  Bolingbroke,  the  heads  of  the  Tory 
party,  by  a  series  of  political  pamphlets.  With  the  accession  of  George 
I,  the  Tory  Ministry  was  irretrievably  ruined,  and  Swift  was  com- 
pelled to  return  to  Ireland,  to  the  Deanery  of  St.  Patrick,  the  only 
reward  he  had  received  for  his  services.  The  rest  of  his  life  was  spent 
in  what  he  regarded  as  banishment,  and  was  further  embittered  by  his 
unhappy  relations  with  two  ladies,  Esther  Johnson  and  Hester  Van- 
homrigh,  the  Stella  and  Vanessa  of  his  journals  and  his  verse.  To 
the  former,  whom  he  had  first  known  in  the  house  of  Sir  William 
Temple,  in  which  she  was  brought  up,  he  was  united  for  many  years 
in  marriage,  but  the  tie  was  never  acknowledged  during  his  lifetime, 
and  was  thus  the  cause  of  much  suffering  if  also  of  much  happiness 
to  both.  With  the  latter  he  formed  a  friendship  of  the  most  ardent 
kind,  which  the  lady  desired  should  lead  to  marriage,  and  she  died 
broken-hearted  on  discovering  the  fact  that  he  was  already  legally 
bound  to  another.  Later  in  life,  disease  of  the  brain  came  on,  and  he 
died  mad  in  1745. 

There  is  no  greater  master  of  satire  than  Swift.  He  thought  clearly, 
wrote  a  singularly  pure  English,  and  could  make  every  sentence  an 
epigram,  without  impairing  the  continuous  flow  of  his  argument.  Two 
of  his  best-known  works  have  an  allegorical  character.  The  "  Tale  o£ 
a  Tub  "  is  directed  against  religious  sects,  and  was  written  with  such 
license  of  illustration  that  Queen  Anne  would  never  permit  the  author 
to  obtain  the  preferment  he  coveted  in  England.  In  "  Gulliver's 
Travels  "  the  satire  is  rather  against  abuses  of  government  and  the 
pleasant  vices  of  society.  In  the  latter  part  of  this,  as  in  several  of 
his  minor  pieces,  he  is  at  times  very  coarse.  This  fault  grew  upon 
him  in  later  life,  perhaps  partly  in  connection  with  a  diseased  brain, 
and  has  caused  his  writings  to  be  regarded  with  suspicion.  Yet,  judged 
by  the  standard  of  his  better  works.  Swift  is  a  moralist  of  high  stamp. 
He  attacked  the  sceptics  of  his  day  with  scathing  irony.  He  was  the 
first  man  who  had  the  heart  to  feel  for  the  oppressed  Irish  peasantry, 
and  the  courage  to  denounce  the  injustice  of  English  misrule.  His 
"  Drapier's  Letters  "  form  an  epoch  in  constitutional  history ;  and  the 
peaceful  struggle  for  Irish  independence  dates  from  them.  The  "  Jour- 
nal to  Stella  "  has  passages  of  infinite  tenderness.  There  have  been 
more  faultless  and  purer-minded  men  than  Swift ;  but  few  have  seen 
more  clearly  where  wrong  lay,  or  have  attacked  it  more  fearlessly. 

The  prose  works  of  Swift  are  among  the  best  specimens  we  possess 
of  a  thorough  English  style,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  two  essays  selected.. 
The  essay  "  On  Style  "  was  contributed  to  "  The  Tatler." 


150 


ON   STYLE 

THE  following  letter  has  laid  before  me  many  great  and 
manifest  evils  in  the  world  of  letters,  which  I  had  over- 
looked ;  but  they  open  to  me  a  very  busy  scene,  and  it 
will  require  no  small  care  and  application  to  amend  errors 
which  are  become  so  universal.  The  affection  of  politeness  is 
exposed  in  this  epistle  with  a  great  deal  of  wit  and  discern- 
ment; so  that  whatever  discourses  I  may  fall  into  hereafter 
upon  the  subjects  the  writer  treats  of,  I  shall  at  present  lay 
the  matter  before  the  world,  without  the  least  edteration  from 
the  words  of  my  correspondent : 

"  To  Isaac  Bickerstaff^  Esquire — Sir  : 

"  There  are  some  abuses  among  us  of  great  consequence,  the 
reformation  of  which  is  properly  your  province;  though,  as 
far  as  I  have  been  conversant  in  your  papers,  you  have  not  yet 
considered  them.  These  are  the  deplorable  ignorance  that  for 
some  years  hath  reigned  among  our  English  writers,  the  great 
depravity  of  our  taste,  and  the  continual  corruption  of  our  style. 
I  say  nothing  here  of  those  who  handle  particular  sciences, 
divinity,  law,  physic,  and  the  like;  I  mean  the  traders  in  his- 
tory, politics,  and  the  belles-lettres,  together  with  those  by 
whom  books  are  not  translated,  but,  as  the  common  expressions 
are,  '  done  '  out  of  French,  Latin,  or  other  language,  and  made 
English.  I  cannot  but  observe  to  you  that  until  of  late  years 
a  Grub-street  book  was  always  bound  in  sheepskin,  with  suit- 
able print  and  paper,  the  price  never  above  a  shilling,  and 
taken  off  wholly  by  common  tradesmen  or  country  pedlars; 
but  now  they  appear  in  all  sizes  and  shapes,  and  in  all  places. 
They  are  handed  about  from  lapfuls  in  every  coffee-house  to 
persons  of  quality;  are  shown  in  Westminster-hall  and  the 
Court  of  Requests.  You  may  see  them  gilt,  and  in  royal  paper 
of  five  or  six  hundred  pages,  and  rated  accordingly.     I  would 

151 


152  SWIFT 

engage  to  furnish  you  with  a  catalogue  of  English  books,  pub- 
lished within  the  compass  of  seven  years  past,  which  at  the 
first  hand  would  cost  you  £ioo,  wherein  you  shall  not  be  able 
to  find  ten  lines  together  of  common  grammar  or  common- 
sense. 

"  These  two  evils,  ignorance  and  want  of  taste,  have  produced 
a  third ;  I  mean  the  continual  corruption  of  our  English  tongue, 
which,  without  some  timely  remedy,  will  suffer  more  by  the 
false  refinements  of  twenty  years  past  than  it  hath  been  im- 
proved in  the  foregoing  hundred.  And  this  is  what  I  design 
chiefly  to  enlarge  upon,  leaving  the  former  evils  to  your  ani- 
madversion. 

"  But  instead  of  giving  you  a  list  of  the  late  refinements 
crept  into  our  language,  I  here  send  you  the  copy  of  a  letter  I 
received,  some  time  ago,  from  a  most  accomplished  person  in 
this  way  of  writing;  upon  which  I  shall  make  some  remarks. 
It  is  in  these  terms: 

"  '  Sir  :  I  cou'd  n't  get  the  things  you  sent  for  all  about  tozvn 
^—1  that  to  ha  come  down  myself,  and  then  I'd  h'  brot  'um;  but 
I  ha'nt  don't,  and  I  believe  I  can't  do  't,  that's  posz — Tom  be- 
gins to  gi  'mself  airs,  because  he  's  going  with  the  plenipo's — 
'T  is  said  the  French  king  will  bamboosl  us  agen,  which  causes 
many  speculations.  The  Jacks  and  others  of  that  kidney  are 
very  uppish  and  alert  upon  't,  as  you  may  see  by  their  phizz's — 
Will  Hazard  has  got  the  hipps,  having  lost  to  the  tune  of  five 
^hundfd  pound,  the'  he  understands  play  very  well,  no  body  bet- 
ter. He  has  promis't  me  upon  rep,  to  leave  off  play ;  but  you 
know  't  is  a  weakness  he's  too  apt  to  give  in  to,  tho'  he  has  as 
much  wit  as  any  man,  no  body  more.  He  has  lain  incog  ever 
since — The  mob's  very  quiet  with  us  now — I  believe  you  that 
I  banter'd  you  in  my  last,  like  a  country  put — I  shan't  leave 
town  this  month,  etc' 

"  This  letter  is  in  every  point  an  admirable  pattern  of  the 
present  polite  way  of  writing;  nor  is  it  of  less  authority  for 
being  an  epistle.  You  may  gather  every  flower  in  it,  with  a 
thousand  more  of  equal  sweetness,  from  the  books,  pamphlets, 
and  single  papers  offered  us  every  day  in  the  coffee-houses: 
and  these  are  the  beauties  introduced  to  supply  the  want  of 
wit,  sense,  humor,  and  learning,  which  formerly  were  looked 
upon  as  qualifications  for  a  writer.     If  a  man  of  wit,  who  died 


ON  STYLE  1^3 

forty  years  ago,  were  to  rise  from  the  grave  on  purpose,  how 
would  he  be  able  to  read  this  letter?  and  after  he  had  got 
through  that  difficulty,  how  would  he  be  able  to  understand  it  ? 
The  first  thing  that  strikes  your  eye,  is  the  breaks  at  the  end  of 
almost  every  sentence ;  of  which  I  know  not  the  use,  only  that 
it  is  a  refinement,  and  very  frequently  practised.  Then  you 
will  observe  the  abbreviations  and  elisions,  by  which  consonants 
of  most  obdurate  sound  are  joined  together,  without  one  soft- 
ening vowel  to  intervene ;  and  all  this  only  to  make  one  syllable 
of  two,  directly  contrary  to  the  example  of  the  Greek  and 
Romans,  altogether  of  the  Gothic  strain,  and  a  natural  ten- 
dency towards  relapsing  into  barbarity,  which  delights  in 
monosyllables,  and  uniting  of  mute  consonants,  as  it  is  ob- 
servable in  all  the  Northern  languages.  And  this  is  still  more 
visible  in  the  next  refinement,  which  consists  in  pronouncing 
the  first  syllable  in  a  word  that  has  many,  and  dismissing  the 
rest,  such  as  phks,  hipps,  mob,  pozz,  rep,  and  many  more, 
when  we  are  already  overloaded  with  monosyllables,  which  are 
the  disgrace  of  our  language.  Thus  we  cram  one  syllable, 
and  cut  oflf  the  rest,  as  the  owl  fattened  her  mice  after  she  had 
bit  off  their  legs  to  prevent  them  from  running  away ;  and  if 
ours  be  the  same  reason  for  maiming  our  words,  it  will  certainly 
answer  the  end;  for  I  am  sure  no  other  nation  will  desire  to 
borrow  them.  Some  words  are  hitherto  but  fairly  split,  and 
therefore  only  in  their  way  to  perfection,  as  incog  and  plenipo: 
but  in  a  short  time  it  is  to  be  hoped  they  will  be  further  docked 
to  inc  and  plen.  This  reflection  has  made  me  of  late  years  very 
impatient  for  a  peace,  which  I  believe  would  save  the  lives  of 
many  brave  words,  as  well  as  men.  The  war  has  introduced 
abundance  of  polysyllables,^  which  will  never  be  able  to  live 
many  more  campaigns :  speculations,  operations,  preliminaries, 
ambassadors,  pallisadoes,  communication,  circumvallation,  bat- 
talions: as  numerous  as  they  are,  if  they  attack  us  too  frequently 
in  our  coffee-houses,  we  shall  certainly  put  them  to  flight,  and 
cut  off  the  rear. 

"  The  third  refinement  observable  in  the  letter  I  send  you 
consists  in  the  choice  of  certain  words,^  invented  by  some  pretty 

^  Several  of  those  cited   by   Swift   are  are   of  uncertain   origin.    "  Kidney  "   is 

used  by  Shakespeare,  Milton,  and  Dry-  used  in  the  same  sense  by  Shakespeare, 

den.  "  Merry    Wives    of    Windsor,"    act    iii. 

2  "  Banter,"  "  bamboozle,"  and   '  put  sc.  5. 


154  SWIFT 

fellows,  such  as  banter,  bamboozle,  country  put,  and  kidney, 
as  it  is  there  appUed ;  some  of  which  are  now  strugghng  for 
the  vogue,  and  others  are  in  possession  of  it.  I  have  done  my 
utmost  for  some  years  past  to  stop  the  progress  of  mob  and 
banter,  but  have  been  plainly  borne  down  by  numbers,  and 
betrayed  by  those  who  promised  to  assist  me. 

"  In  the  last  place,  you  are  to  take  notice  of  certain  choice 
phrases  scattered  through  the  letter,  some  of  them  tolerable 
enough,  until  they  were  worn  to  rags  by  servile  imitators. 
You  might  easily  find  them  though  they  were  not  in  a  different 
print,  and  therefore  I  need  not  disturb  them. 

"  These  are  the  false  refinements  in  our  style  which  you 
ought  to  correct:  first,  by  argument  and  fair  means;  but  if 
these  fail,  I  think  you  are  to  make  use  of  your  authority  as 
censor,  and  by  an  annual  index  expurgatorius  expunge  all 
words  and  phrases  that  are  offensive  to  good  sense,  and  con- 
demn those  barbarous  mutilations  of  vowels  and  syllables.  In 
this  last  point  the  usual  pretence  is,  that  they  spell  as  they  speak. 
A  noble  standard  for  language !  to  depend  upon  the  caprice  of 
every  coxcomb  who,  because  words  are  the  clothing  of  our 
thoughts,  cuts  them  out  and  shapes  them  as  he  pleases,  and 
changes  them  oftener  than  his  dress.  I  believe  all  reasonable 
people  would  be  content  that  such  refiners  were  more  sparing 
in  their  words,  and  liberal  in  their  syllables :  and  upon  this  head 
I  should  be  glad  you  would  bestow  some  advice  upon  several 
young  readers  in  our  churches,  who,  coming  up  from  the  uni- 
versity full  fraught  with  admiration  of  our  town  politeness, 
will  needs  correct  the  style  of  their  prayer-books.  In  reading 
the  Absolution,  they  are  very  careful  to  say  pardons  and  ab- 
solves: and  in  the  prayer  for  the  royal  family,  it  must  be 
endue'nm,  enrich'um,  prosper'um,  and  bring  um.  Then  in 
their  sermons  they  use  all  the  modern  terms  of  art,  sham,  ban- 
ter, mob,  bubble,^  bully,  cutting,  shuffling,  and  palming;  all 
which,  and  many  more  of  the  like  stamp,  as  I  have  heard  them 
often  in  the  pulpit  from  such  young  sophisters,  so  I  have  read 
them  in  some  of  *  those  sermons  that  have  made  most  noise  of 
late.'  The  design,  it  seems,  is  to  avoid  the  dreadful  imputation 
of  pedantry ;  to  show  us  that  they  know  the  town,  understand 

3  Aoyoae  defrauded.    So  used  after  the  time  of  the  South  Sea  Bubble. 


ON  STYLE  I 55 

men  and  manners,  and  have  not  been  poring  upon  old,  un- 
fashionable books  in  the  university. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  see  you  the  instrument  of  introducing 
into  our  style  that  simplicity  which  is  the  best  and  truest  orna- 
ment of  most  things  in  life,  which  the  politer  age  always  aimed 
at  in  their  building  and  dress,  simplex  munditiis,  as  well  as  in 
their  productions  of  wit.  It  is  manifest  that  all  new  affected 
modes  of  speech,  whether  borrowed  from  the  court,  the  town, 
or  the  theatre,  are  the  first  perishing  parts  in  any  language; 
and,  as  I  could  prove  by  many  hundred  instances,  have  been 
so  in  ours.  The  writings  of  Hooker,*  who  was  a  country  clergy- 
man, and  of  Parsons  ^  the  Jesuit,  both  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  are  in  a  style  that,  with  very  few  allowances,  would 
not  offend  any  present  reader,  and  are  much  more  clear  and 
intelligible  than  those  of  Sir  Harry  Wotton,®  Sir  Robert  Naun- 
ton,'^  Osborn,*  Daniel  ^  the  historian,  and  several  others  who 
writ  later ;  but  being  men  of  the  court,  and  affecting  the  phrases 
then  in  fashion,  they  are  often  either  not  to  be  understood,  or 
appear  perfectly  ridiculous. 

''  What  remedies  are  to  be  applied  to  these  evils  I  have  not 
room  to  consider,  having,  I  fear,  already  taken  up  most  of 
your  paper.  Besides,  I  think  it  is  our  office  only  to  represent 
abuses,  and  yours  to  redress  them.  I  am,  with  great  respect, 
sir, 

"  Yours,  etc." 

*  iS53-i6oo.  For  some  years  rector  of  *  Sir  R.  Naunton  (1563-1635)  was 
Boscombe,  Salisbury.  Cf.  Hallam's  ver-  author  of  "  Fragmenta  Regalia,"  an  ac- 
diet: — "  So  little  is  there  of  vulgarity  in  count  of  certain  Elizabethan  celebrities, 
his  racy  idiom,  of  pedantry  in  his  learned  *  Francis  Osborn  (1589-1658)  was  au- 
phrase,  that  I  know  not  whether  any  thor  of  "  Advice  to  a  Son,"  concerning 
later  writer  has  more  admirably  dis-  which  Johnson  said,  that  "  were  a  man 
played  the  capacities  of  our  language."  to  write  so  now,  the  boys  would  throw 

*  Robert  Parsons  (1546-1610),  a  famous  stones  at  him." 


Jesuit  agitator  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  •  Sam.    Daniel   (1562-1619),  a_  poet  and 

*  Sir    Henry   Wotton    (1568-1639).    The  historian.     Swift's    criticism    is    unjust, 

"  Reliquiae    Wottonianae "    'WCfe    edited  for     Daniel's     style     has     always     bees 

by  Izaak  Walton,  1651.  praised  for  its  perspicuity. 


THE  VINDICATION    OF   ISAAC   BICKERSTAFF 

MR.  PARTRIDGE  ^  has  been  lately  pleased  to  treat  me 
after  a  very  rough  manner,  in  that  which  is  called 
his  "Almanac"  for  the  present  year:  such  usage  i" 
very  indecent  from  one  gentleman  to  another,  and  does  not  at 
all  contribute  to  the  discovery  of  truth,  which  ought  to  be  the 
great  end  in  all  disputes  of  the  learned.  To  call  a  man  a  fool 
and  villain,  an  impudent  fellow,  only  for  differing  from  him 
in  a  point  merely  speculative,  is,  in  my  humble  opinion,  a  very 
improper  style  for  a  person  of  his  education.  I  appeal  to  the 
learned  world,  whether,  in  last  year's  predictions,  I  gave  him 
the  least  provocation  for  such  unworthy  treatment.  Philoso 
phers  have  differed  in  all  ages ;  but  the  discreetest  among  them 
have  always  differed  as  became  philosophers.  Scurrility  and 
passion,  in  a  controversy  among  scholars,  is  just  so  much  of 
nothing  to  the  purpose,  and  at  best  a  tacit  confession  of  a  weak 
cause :  my  concern  is  not  so  much  for  my  own  reputation,  as 
that  of  the  republic  of  letters,  which  Mr.  Partridge  has  en- 
deavored to  wound  through  my  sides.  If  men  of  public  spirit, 
must  be  superciliously  treated  for  their  ingenious  attempts,  how 
will  true,  useful  knowledge  be  ever  advanced?  I  wish  Mr. 
Partridge  knew  the  thoughts  which  foreign  universities  have 
conceived  of  his  ungenerous  proceedings  with  me;  but  I  am 
too  tender  of  his  reputation  to  publish  them  to  the  world.  That 
spirit  of  envy  and  pride,  which  blasts  so  many  rising  geniuses 

'  The   history   of   the   famous   joke    is  Partridge's    death,   and    many   wits   ft   • 

briefly  this.     In   1708,   Swift,   in   ridicule  lowed   this  up  with   numerous  epitaphs, 

of    the    pretensions    of    almanac-makers.  Later   appeared   "  Bickerstail    Detected, 

published    under    the    name    of     Bick-  by  J.  Partridge,"  an  attempt  to  turn  the 

crstaff   his    sham    "  Predictions   for   the  joke  against  Swift,  which  has  been  vari- 

year  1708,"  one  of  the  predictions  being  ously  attributed  to  Congreve,  Rowe,  and 

the  death  of  John  Partridge  on   March  Dr.    Yalden.    Then,   in    1709,    Swift   vin- 

29,    1708.     Partridge    was    a    well-known  dicated   himself   in   this   ironical    paper, 

prophet   of  the   time,    whose    book   was  Partridge  really  lived  till  1715,  and  there 

called    "  Merlinus    Liberatus,    by    John  is     an     epitaph     to     him     in     Mortlake 

Partridge,   Student  in   Physick  and  As-  Churchyard,   but  he  issued  no  almanac 

trology,   at   the   Blue    Bell   in   Salisbury  after  1709,  for  his  fame  did  not  survive 

Street,    in    the    Strand,     London."    In  his_  metaphorical  death  at  the  hands  of 

April    Swift    published    an    account    of  Swift. 


158  SWIFT 

in  our  nation,  is  yet  unknown  among  professors  abroad:  the 
necessity  of  justifying  myself  will  excuse  my  vanity,  when  I 
tell  the  reader,  that  I  have  near  a  hundred  honorary  letters 
from  several  parts  of  Europe  (some  as  far  as  Muscovy)  in 
praise  of  my  performance,  beside  several  others  which,  as  I 
have  been  credibly  informed,  were  opened  in  the  post-office, 
and  never  sent  me.  It  is  true,  the  Inquisition  ^  in  Portugal  , 
was  pleased  to  burn  my  predictions,  and  condemn  the  author 
and  the  readers  of  them :  but  I  hope,  at  the  same  time,  it  will  b^ 
considered  in  how  deplorable  a  state  learning  lies  at  present  in 
that  kingdom :  and  with  the  profoundest  veneration  for 
crowned  heads,  I  will  presume  to  add,  that  it  a  little  concerned 
His  Majesty  of  Portugal  to  interpose  his  authority  in  behalf  of 
a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  the  subject  of  a  nation  with  which 
he  is  now  in  so  strict  an  alliance.  But  the  other  kingdoms  and 
States  of  Europe  have  treated  me  with  more  candor  and  gen- 
erosity. If  I  had  leave  to  print  the  Latin  letters  transmitted 
to  me  from  foreign  parts,  they  would  fill  a  volume,  and  be  a  full 
defence  against  all  that  Mr.  Partridge,  or  his  accomplices  of 
the  Portugal  Inquisition,  will  be  ever  able  to  object;  who,  by 
the  way,  are  the  only  enemies  my  predictions  have  ever  met 
with  at  home  or  abroad.  But  I  hope  I  know  better  what  is  due 
to  the  honor  of  a  learned  correspondence  in  so  tender  a  point. 
Yet  some  of  those  illustrious  persons  will  perhaps  excuse  me 
for  transcribing  a  passage  or  two  ^  in  my  vindication.  The 
most  learned  Monsieur  Leibnitz  thus  addresses  to  me  his  third 
letter :  "  Illnstrissimo  Bickerstaifio  astrologice  instaiiratori" 
etc.  Monsieur  Le  Clerc,  quoting  my  predictions  in  a  treatise 
he  published  last  year,  is  pleased  to  say,  "  Ita  nuperimme  Bick- 
erstaffius  magnum  illtid  Anglicc  sidiis."  Another  great  pro- 
fessor writing  of  me  has  these  words :  "  Bickerstaifius  nobilis 
Anglus,  astrologorum  hiijiisce  sccculi  facile  prince ps."  Sig- 
nior  Magliabecchi,  the  great  duke's  famous  library-keeper, 
spends  almost  his  whole  letter  in  compliments  and  praises.  It 
is  true,  the  renowned  professor  of  astronomy  at  Utrecht  seems 
to  differ  from  me  in  one  article ;  but  it  is  after  the  modest  man- 
ner that  becomes  a  philosopher;    as,  pace  tanti  viri  dixerim: 

*  Swift   had    predicted    that    the   pope  •  These    ludicrous    quotations    are    a 

would    die    on    September    nth,    and    it  burlesque  of  the  stvle  of  Swift's  old  ao- 

was  reported  by  an  ambassador  that  bis  tagonist,  Bentley  (Nichols), 
book  was  actually  burnt. 


THE  VINDICATION  OF  ISAAC  BICKERSTAFF       159 

and  page  55,  he  seems  to  lay  the  error  upon  the  printer  (as  in- 
deed it  ought),  and  says,  vel  forsan  error  typographi,  cum 
alioquin  Bicker staMus  vir  doctissimus,  etc. 

If  Mr.  Partridge  had  followed  these  examples  in  the  con- 
troversy between  us,  he  might  have  spared  me  the  trouble  of 
justifying  myself  in  so  public  a  manner.  I  believe  no  man  is 
readier  to  own  his  errors  than  I,  or  more  thankful  to  those 
who  will  please  to  inform  him  of  them.  But  it  seems,  this 
gentleman,  instead  of  encouraging  the  progress  of  his  own  art, 
is  pleased  to  look  upon  all  attempts  of  that  kind  as  an  invasion 
of  his  province.  He  has  been  indeed  so  wise  as  to  make  no 
objection  against  the  truth  of  my  predictions,  except  in  one 
single  point  relating  to  himself :  and  to  demonstrate  how  much 
men  are  blinded  by  their  own  partiality,  I  do  solemnly  assure 
the  reader,  that  he  is  the  only  person,  from  whom  I  ever  heard 
that  objection  offered;  which  consideration  alone,  I  think,  will 
take  off  all  its  weight. 

With  my  utmost  endeavors  I  have  not  been  able  to  trace 
above  two  objections  ever  made  against  the  truth  of  my  last 
year's  prophecies:  the  first  was  of  a  Frenchman  who  was 
pleased  to  publish  to  the  world  "  that  the  Cardinal  de  Noailles 
was  still  alive,  notwithstanding  the  pretended  prophecy  of  Mon- 
sieur Biquerstaffe,"  but  how  far  a  Frenchman,  a  papist,  and 
an  enemy  is  to  be  believed  in  his  own  cause,  against  an  English 
Protestant  who  is  true  to  the  government,  I  shall  leave  to  the 
candid  and  impartial  reader. 

The  other  objection  is  the  unhappy  occasion  of  this  dis- 
course, and  relates  to  an  article  in  my  "  Predictions,"  which 
foretold  the  death  of  Mr.  Partridge  to  happen  on  March  29, 
1708.  This  he  is  pleased  to  contradict  absolutely  in  the  "  Al- 
manac "  he  has  published  for  the  present  year,  and  in  that  un- 
gentlemanly  manner  (pardon  the  expression)  as  I  have  above 
related.  In  that  work  he  very  roundly  asserts  that  he  "  is  not 
only  now  alive,  but  was  likewise  alive  upon  that  very  twenty- 
ninth  of  March,  when  I  had  foretold  he  should  die."  This  is 
the  subject  of  the  present  controversy  between  us;  which  I 
design  to  handle  with  all  brevity,  perspicuity,  and  calmness. 
In  this  dispute,  I  am  sensible  the  eyes  not  only  of  England  but 
of  all  Europe  will  be  upon  us :  and  the  learned  in  every  coun- 


i6o  SWIFT 

try  will,  I  doubt  not,  take  part  on  that  side  where  they  find 
most  appearance  of  reason  and  truth. 

Without  entering  into  criticisms  of  chronology  about  the 
hour  of  his  death,  I  shall  only  prove  that  Mr.  Partridge  is  not 
alive.  And  my  first  argument  is  this :  about  a  thousand  gen- 
tlemen having  bought  his  "  Almanacs  "  for  this  year  merely 
to  find  what  he  said  against  me,  at  every  line  they  read,  they 
would  lift  up  their  eyes,  and  cry  out,  betwixt  rage  and  laughter, 
"  they  were  sure  no  man  alive  ever  writ  such  damned  stuff  as 
this."  Neither  did  I  ever  hear  that  opinion  disputed,  so  that 
Mr.  Partridge  lies  under  a  dilemma,  either  of  disowning  his 
"  Almanac,"  or  allowing  himself  to  be  no  man  alive.  Secondly, 
Death  is  defined  by  all  philosophers,  a  separation  of  the  soul 
and  body.  Now  it  is  certain,  that  the  poor  woman  who  has 
best  reason  to  know,  has  gone  about  for  some  time  into  every 
alley  in  the  neighborhood,  and  sworn  to  the  gossips  that  her 
husband  had  neither  life  nor  soul  in  him.  Therefore,  if  an 
uninformed  carcass  walks  still  about,  and  is  pleased  to  call 
itself  Partridge,  Mr.  Bickerstaff  does  not  think  himself  any 
way  answerable  for  that.  Neither  had  the  said  carcass  any 
right  to  beat  the  poor  boy  who  happened  to  pass  by  it  in  the 
street,  crying,  "  a  full  and  true  account  of  Dr.  Partridge's 
death,"  etc. 

Thirdly,  Mr.  Partridge  pretends  to  tell  fortunes,  and  re- 
cover stolen  goods ;  which  all  the  parish  says  he  must  do  by 
conversing  with  the  devil  and  other  evil  spirits;  and  no  wise 
man  will  ever  allow  he  could  converse  personally  with  either  till 
after  he  was  dead. 

Fourthly,  I  will  plainly  prove  him  to  be  dead,  out  of  his 
own  "  Almanac  "  for  this  year  and  from  the  very  passage 
which  he  produces  to  make  us  think  him  alive.  He  there  says, 
"  he  is  not  only  now  alive,  but  was  also  alive  upon  that  very 
twenty-ninth  of  March  which  I  foretold  he  should  die  on": 
by  this  he  declares  his  opinion  that  a  man  may  be  alive  now 
who  was  not  alive  a  twelvemonth  ago.  And,  indeed,  there 
lies  the  sophistry  of  his  argument.  He  dares  not  assert  he  was 
alive  ever  since  that  twenty-ninth  of  March,  but  that  he  "  is 
now  alive,  and  was  so  on  that  day."  I  grant  the  latter ;  for  he 
did  not  die  till  night,  as  appears  by  the  printed  account  of  his 
death  in  a  "  Letter  to  a  Lord  " ;  and  whether  he  be  since  re- 


THE   VINDICATION  OF   ISAAC  BICKERSTAFF       i6i 

vived  I  leave  the  world  to  judge.  This  indeed  is  perfect  cavil- 
ling, and  I  am  ashamed  to  dwell  any  longer  upon  it. 

Fifthly,  I  will  appeal  to  Mr.  Partridge  himself  whether  it 
be  probable  I  could  have  been  so  indiscreet  to  begin  my  pre- 
dictions with  the  only  falsehood  that  ever  was  pretended  to 
be  in  them  ?  and  this  in  an  affair  at  home  where  I  had  so  many 
opportunities  to  be  exact ;  and  must  have  given  such  advantages 
against  me  to  a  person  of  Mr.  Partridge's  wit  and  learning, 
who,  if  he  could  possibly  have  raised  one  single  objection  more 
against  the  truth  of  my  prophe-cies,  would  hardly  have  spared 
me. 

And  here  I  must  take  occasion  to  reprove  the  above-men- 
tioned writer  of  the  relation  of  Mr.  Partridge's  death  in  a 
"  Letter  to  a  Lord,"  who  was  pleased  to  tax  me  with  a  mis- 
take of  four  whole  hours  in  my  calculation  of  that  event.  I 
must  confess,  this  censure,  pronounced  with  an  air  of  certainty, 
in  a  matter  that  so  nearly  concerned  me,  and  by  a  grave,  judi- 
cious author,  moved  me  not  a  little.  But  though  I  was  at  that 
time  out  of  town,  yet  several  of  my  friends,  whose  curiosity 
had  led  them  to  be  exactly  informed  (for  as  to  my  own  part, 
having  no  doubt  at  all  in  the  matter,  I  never  once  thought  of 
it)  assured  me  I  computed  to  something  under  half  an  hour, 
which  (I  speak  my  private  opinion)  is  an  error  of  no  very 
great  magnitude  that  men  should  raise  a  clamor  about  it.  I 
shall  only  say,  it  would  not  be  amiss  if  that  author  would 
henceforth  be  more  tender  of  other  men's  reputations  as  well  as 
his  own.  It  is  well  there  were  no  more  mistakes  of  that  kind ; 
if  there  had,  I  presume  he  would  have  told  me  of  them  with 
as  little  ceremony. 

There  is  one  objection  against  Mr.  Partridge's  death  which 
I  have  sometimes  met  with,  though  indeed  very  slightly  of- 
fered, that  he  still  continues  to  write  "  Almanacs."  But  this 
is  no  more  than  what  is  common  to  all  of  that  profession :  Gad- 
bury,*  Poor  Robin,  Dove,  Wing,  and  several  others  do  yearly 
publish  their  almanacs  though  several  of  them  have  been  dead 
since  before  the  Revolution.  Now  the  natural  reason  of  this 
I  take  to  be,  that  whereas  it  is  the  privilege  of  authors  to  live 
after  their  death,  almanac-makers  are  alone  excluded,  because 

*  A       contemporary      almanac-maker,       1662  to  1828.    The  others  are  advertised 
whose   life    was    written    by    Partridge.       in  the  "  Daily  Courant  "  in  1705. 
"  Poor  Robin's  Almanac  "  lasted  from  g — Vol.  5? 


i62  SWIFT 

their  dissertations,  treating  only  upon  the  minutes  as  they  pass, 
become  useless  as  those  go  off.  In  consideration  of  which, 
Time,  whose  registers  they  are,  gives  them  a  lease  in  reversion, 
to  continue  their  works  after  death. 

I  should  not  have  given  the  public  or  myself  the  trouble  of 
this  vindication  if  my  name  had  not  been  made  use  of  by  several 
persons  to  whom  I  never  lent  it ;  one  of  which,  a  few  days  ago, 
was  pleased  to  father  on  me  a  new  set  of  predictions.  But  I 
think  these  are  things  too  serious  to  be  trifled  with.  It  grieved 
me  to  the  heart,  when  I  saw  my  labors,  which  had  cost  me  so 
much  thought  and  watching,  bawled  about  by  the  common 
hawkers  of  Grub-street,  which  I  only  intended  for  the  weighty 
consideration  of  the  gravest  persons.  This  prejudiced  the 
world  so  much  at  first,  that  several  of  my  friends  had  the  as- 
surance to  ask  me  whether  I  were  in  jest?  to  which  I  only 
answered  coJdly,  "  that  the  event  would  show."  But  it  is  the 
talent  of  our  age  and  nation  to  turn  things  of  the  greatest  im- 
portance into  ridicule.  When  the  end  of  the  year  had  verified 
all  my  predictions,  out  comes  Mr.  Partridge's  "  Almanac,"  dis- 
puting the  point  of  his  death ;  so  that  I  am  employed,  like  the 
general  who  was  forced  to  kill  his  enemies  twice  over,  whom  a 
necromancer  had  raised  to  life.  If  Mr.  Partridge  have  prac- 
tised the  same  experiment  upon  himself,  and  be  again  alive, 
long  may  he  continue  so ;  that  does  not  the  least  contradict  my 
veracity :  but  I  think  I  have  clearly  proved,  by  invincible 
demonstration,  that  he  died,  at  furthest,  within  half  an  hour 
of  the  time  I  foretold,  and  not  four  hours  sooner,  as  the  above- 
mentioned  author,  in  his  "  Letter  to  a  Lord,"  has  maliciously 
suggested,  with  design  to  blast  my  credit,  by  charging  me  with 
so  gross  a  mistake. 


THE  DEITY  UNFOLDED  IN    HIS  WORKS 


BY 


ANTHONY    ASHLEY    COOPER 

Earl  of  Shaftesbury 


ANTHONY   ASHLEY   COOPER,   EARL  OF   SHAFTESBURY 

1671— 1713 

Anthony  Ashley  Cooper,  the  author  of  the  "  Characteristics,"  was 
the  grandson  of  the  great  statesman,  Dryden's  Achitophel,  who  was 
the  first  Earl  of  Shaftesbury.  He  had  the  best  means  of  becoming 
versed  in  classical  literature  and  in  philosophy.  He  was  taught  Greek 
and  Latin  orally  by  a  Mrs.  Birch,  who  is  said  to  have  spoken  those 
languages  fluently,  and  to  have  taught  her  pupil  to  speak  them  by  the 
time  he  was  eleven  years  old.  In  his  grandfather's  household  he  had 
constant  opportunity  of  intercourse  with  Locke,  and  had  already  at 
the  age  of  eighteen  begun  a  regular  correspondence  with  him  on 
philosophical  questions. 

He  lived  a  studious  and  retired  life,  spending  much  of  his  time 
abroad,  either  in  Italy,  where  he  studied  the  fine  arts  elaborately,  or  in 
Holland,  where  he  conversed  with  Bayle,  and  other  free  spirits,  who 
found  a  refuge  there.  He  took  little  part  in  English  politics.  He  sat 
in  the  Commons  during  one  Parliament  (1694 — 1698),  but  broke  down 
as  a  speaker.  Afterwards,  as  a  peer,  he  was  active  in  the  election  of 
William's  last  Parliament  (1701),  and  is  said  to  have  had  a  hand  in 
the  composition  of  the  celebrated  speech  in  which  the  King  called  on 
this  Parliament  for  support  in  the  new  war  with  France.  He  was  a 
friend  of  Somers,  to  whom  he  addressed  the  letter  on  "  Enthusiasm," 
and  a  faithful  Whig. 

He  died  at  Naples  in  1713.  His  treatises  were  all  written  (at  least 
in  their  complete  form)  during  the  last  five  years  of  his  life.  The 
letter  on  "Enthusiasm"  (1708)  was  occasioned  by  the  excitement 
about  the  "  French  Prophets,"  and  was  followed  by  the  "  Essay  on 
the  Freedom  of  Wit  and  Humor."  Both  deal  with  the  legitimacy  of 
the  application  of  ridicule  to  religious  pretensions.  The  "  Advice  to 
an  Author,"  which  exhibits  true  self-knowledge  as  the  basis  of  literary 
art,  was  published  in  1710.  Then  came  his  two  distinctly  philosophical 
treatises,  the  "Inquiry  Concerning  Virtue"  and  the  "Moralists:  a 
Rhapsody."  The  above,  with  "  Miscellaneous  Reflections  "  and  an 
"  Essay  on  Art,"  purporting  to  be  a  "  notion  "  of  a  possible  "  Tabla- 
ture  of  the  Judgment  of  Hercules,"  form  the  "  Characteristics,"  which 
were  first  published  complete  after  his  death. 

He  had  a  real  love  for  classical  literature,  and  believed  himself,  as  he 
was  believed  by  his  contemporaries,  to  write  a  specially  classical  style. 
To  later  readers  he  has  seemed  to  have  lost  vernacular  vigor  without 
acquiring  classical  ease.  Questions  of  religion  and  philosophy  he  ap- 
proached too  much  in  the  attitude  of  a  well-bred  connoisseur  to  get 
to  the  bottom  of  them.  He  vigorously  maintained,  however,  as  against 
Hobbes,  the  "  disinterestedness  "  of  virtue,  and  introduced  the  doctrine 
of  a  "  moral  sense,"  i.e.,  of  a  specific  feeling  of  pleasure  in  good  actions, 
as  the  source  of  moral  judgments.  He  was  a  great  student  of  Epictetus 
and  Antoninus,  and  had  a  genuine  stoical  belief  in  one  divine  mind, 
expressed  in  nature  and  communicated  to  man.  "  The  Deity  Unfolded 
In  His  Works  "  is  one  of  the  essays  in  his  "  Characteristics." 


164 


THE  DEITY  UNFOLDED   IN   HIS   WORKS 

HOW  oblique  and  faintly  looks  the  sun  on  yonder  cli- 
mates, far  removed  from  him !  How  tedious  are  the 
winters  there!  How  deep  the  horrors  of  the  night, 
and  how  uncomfortable  even  the  light  of  day!  The  freezing 
winds  employ  their  fiercest  breath,  yet  are  not  spent  with  blow- 
ing. The  sea,  which  elsewhere  is  scarce  confined  within  its 
limits,  lies  here  immured  in  walls  of  crystal.  The  snow  covers 
the  hills,  and  almost  fills  the  lowest  valleys.  How  wide  and 
deep  it  lies,  incumbent  o'er  the  plains,  hiding  the  sluggish  riv- 
ers, the  shrubs  and  trees,  the  dens  of  beasts,  and  mansions  of 
distressed  and  feeble  men  !  See  where  they  lie  confined,  hardly 
secure  against  the  raging  cold,  or  the  attacks  of  the  wild  beasts, 
now  masters  of  the  wasted  field,  and  forced  by  hunger  out  of 
the  naked  wood.  Yet  not  disheartened  (such  is  the  force  of 
human  breasts),  but  thus  provided  for  by  art  and  prudence, 
the  kind  compensating  gifts  of  Heaven,  men  and  their  herds 
may  wait  for  a  release.  For,  at  length,  the  sun  approaching 
melts  the  snow,  sets  longing  men  at  liberty,  and  affords  them 
means  and  time  to  make  provision  against  the  next  return  of 
cold.  It  breaks  the  icy  fetters  of  the  main,  where  vast  sea- 
monsters  pierce  through  floating  islands,  with  arms  which  can 
withstand  the  crystal  rock ;  whilst  others,  who  of  themselves 
seem  great  as  islands,  are  by  their  bulk  alone  armed  against  all 
but  man,  whose  superiority  over  creatures  of  such  stupendous 
size  and  force  should  make  him  mindful  of  his  privilege  of  rea- 
son, and  force  him  humbly  to  adore  the  great  Composer  of  these 
wondrous  frames,  and  Author  of  his  own  superior  wisdom. 

But  leaving  these  dull  climates,  so  little  favored  by  the  sun, 
for  those  happier  regions  on  which  he  looks  more  kindly,  mak- 
ing perpetual  summer,  how  great  an  alteration  do  we  find? 
His  purer  light  confounds  weak-sighted  mortals,  pierced  by  his 
scorching  beams.     Scarce  can  they  tread  the  glowing  ground. 

165 


i66  COOPER 

The  air  they  breathe  cannot  enough  abate  the  fire  which  burns 
within  their  panting  breasts.  Their  bodies  melt.  O'ercome 
and  fainting,  they  seek  the  shade,  and  wait  the  cool  refresh- 
ments of  the  night.  Yet  oft  the  bounteous  Creator  bestows 
other  refreshments.  He  casts  a  veil  of  clouds  before  them,  and 
raises  gentle  gales ;  favored  by  which,  the  men  and  beasts  pur- 
sue their  labors,  and  plants  refreshed  by  dews  and  showers  can 
gladly  bear  the  warmest  sunbeams. 

And  here  the  varying  scene  opens  to  new  wonders.  We  see 
a  country  rich  with  gems,  but  richer  with  the  fragrant  spices  it 
affords.  How  gravely  move  the  largest  of  land-creatures  on 
the  banks  of  this  fair  river !  How  ponderous  are  their  arms, 
and  vast  their  strength,  with  courage  and  a  sense  superior  to 
the  other  beasts!  Yet  are  they  tamed  (we  see)  by  mankind, 
and  brought  even  to  fight  their  battles  rather  as  allies  and  con- 
federates than  as  slaves.  But  let  us  turn  our  eyes  towards  these 
smaller  and  more  curious  objects — the  numerous  and  devouring 
insects  on  the  trees  in  these  wide  plains.  How  shining,  strong, 
and  lasting  are  the  subtle  threads  spun  from  their  artful 
mouths !  Who  beside  the  All-wise  has  taught  them  to  compose 
the  beautiful  soft  shells,  in  which  recluse  and  buried,  yet  still 
alive,  they  undergo  such  a  surprising  change,  when  not  de- 
stroyed by  men,  who  clothe  and  adorn  themselves  with  the 
labors  and  lives  of  these  weak  creatures,  and  are  proud  of  wear- 
ing such  inglorious  spoils?  How  sumptuously  apparelled, 
gay,  and  splendid,  are  all  the  various  insects  which  feed  on  the 
other  plants  of  this  warm  region !  How  beautiful  the  plants 
themselves  in  all  their  various  growths,  from  the  triumphant 
palm  down  to  the  humble  moss ! 

Now  may  we  see  that  happy  country  where  precious  gums 
and  balsams  flow  from  trees,  and  nature  yields  her  most  de- 
licious fruits.  How  tame  and  tractable,  how  patient  of  labor 
and  of  thirst,  are  those  large  creatures,  who,  lifting  up  their 
lofty  heads,  go  led  and  laden  through  those  dry  and  barren 
places !  Their  shape  and  temper  show  them  framed  by  nature 
to  submit  to  man,  and  fitted  for  his  service,  who  from  hence 
ought  to  be  more  sensible  of  his  wants,  and  of  the  Divine  bounty 
thus  supplying  them. 

But  behold  !  through  a  vast  tract  of  sky  before  us,  the  mighty 
Atlas  rears  his  lofty  head,  covered  with  snow,  above  the  clouds. 


THE  DEITY  UNFOLDED   IN   HIS  WORKS  167 

Beneath  the  mountain's  foot  the  rocky  country  rises  into  hills, 
a  proper  basis  of  the  ponderous  mass  above,  where  huge  em- 
bodied rocks  lie  piled  on  one  another,  and  seem  to  prop  the 
high  arch  of  heaven.  See!  with  what  trembling  steps  poor 
mankind  tread  the  narrow  brink  of  the  deep  precipice !  From 
whence,  with  giddy  horror,  they  look  down,  mistrusting  even 
the  ground  which  bears  them,  whilst  they  hear  the  hollow 
sound  of  torrents  underneath,  and  see  the  ruin  of  the  impend- 
ing rock,  with  falling  trees  which  hang  with  their  roots  up- 
wards, and  seem  to  drive  more  ruin  after  them.  Here  thought- 
less men,  seized  with  the  newness  of  such  objects,  become 
thoughtful,  and  willingly  contemplate  the  incessant  changes  of 
this  earth's  surface.  They  see,  as  in  one  instant,  the  revolu- 
tions of  past  ages,  the  fleeting  forms  of  things,  and  the  decay 
even  of  this  our  globe,  whose  youth  and  first  formation  they 
consider,  whilst  the  apparent  spoil  and  irreparable  breaches  of 
the  wasted  mountain  show  them  the  world  itself  only  as  a  noble 
ruin,  and  make  them  think  of  its  approaching  period.  But  here 
midway  the  mountain,  a  specious  border  of  thick  wood  harbors 
our  wearied  travellers,  who  now  are  come  among  the  ever  green 
and  lofty  pines,  the  firs,  and  noble  cedars,  whose  towering  heads 
seem  endless  in  the  sky,  the  rest  of  trees  appearing  only  as 
shrubs  beside  them.  And  here  a  dififerent  horror  seizes  our 
sheltered  travellers,  when  they  see  the  day  diminished  by  the 
deep  shades  of  the  vast  wood;  which  closing  thick  above, 
spreads  darkness  and  eternal  night  below.  The  faint  and 
gloomy  light  looks  horrid  as  the  shade  itself ;  and  the  profound 
stillness  of  these  places  imposes  silence  upon  men,  struck  with 
the  hoarse  echoings  of  every  sound  within  the  spacious  caverns 
of  the  wood.  Here  space  astonishes.  Silence  itself  seems 
pregnant;  whilst  an  unknown  force  works  on  the  mind,  and 
dubious  objects  move  the  wakeful  sense.  Mysterious  voices 
are  either  heard  or  fancied,  and  various  forms  of  deity  seem 
to  present  themselves,  and  appear  more  manifest  in  these  sacred 
sylvan  scenes,  such  as  of  old  gave  rise  to  temples,  and  favored 
the  religion  of  the  ancient  world.  Even  we  ourselves,  who  in 
plain  characters  may  read  divinity  from  so  many  bright  parts 
of  earth,  choose  rather  these  obscurer  places  to  spell  out  that 
mysterious  Being,  which,  to  our  weak  eyes,  appears  at  best  un- 
der a  veil  of  clou(i« 


A    SCENE    OF    DOMESTIC    FELICITY 


A    DEATH-BED    SCENE 


THE    TRUMPET    CLUB 


N    THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS 


THE    SPECTATOR    CLU 


THE    UGLY    CLU 


SIR  ROGER  AND  THE  WIDOW 


BY 


SIR     RICHARD    STEELE 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 
1671 — 1729 

Richard  Steele  was  born  in  1671,  of  English  parents,  in  Dublin, 
where  his  father  was  secretary  to  the  Duke  of  Orniond.  He  lost  his 
father  when  he  was  very  young,  and  was  sent  by  the  Duke  of  Ormond 
to  the  Charterhouse,  where  he  was  the  schoolfellow  of  Addison,  He 
was  admitted  a  postmaster  of  Merton  College,  Oxford,  in  1691,  but 
left  the  university  without  taking  a  degree,  and  entered  the  army, 
enlisting  as  a  private  in  the  horse-guards.  For  this  he  was  disinherited 
by  a  rich  relation,  but  his  convivial  and  popular  qualities  attracted  the 
good-will  of  his  officers,  and  he  obtained  a  commission  and  rose  to 
the  rank  of  captain  ere  he  quitted  the  service  in  1703.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  he  obtained  the  appointment  of 
Gazetteer.  In  1713  Steele  entered  Parliament  as  a  member  for  Stock- 
bridge,  but  two  years  later  was  expelled  from  the  House  for  alleged 
seditious  libels,  contained  in  the  "  Englishman  "  and  the  "  Crisis,"  for 
which  he  was  certainly  only  in  part  responsible.  On  the  accession  of 
George  I  he  obtained  some  minor  offices,  received  a  gratuity,  and  was 
knighted.  In  1715  he  again  entered  Parliament  as  member  for  Borough- 
bridge,  in  Yorkshire.  Some  years  before  his  death  he  was  struck  with 
paralysis,  and  retired  to  his  country-seat  in  Wales,  where  he  died 
in  1729. 

Steele  commenced  his  career  as  an  author  with  a  "  Poem  on  the 
Funeral  of  Queen  Mary."  It  was  quickly  followed  by  a  treatise  in 
prose,  **  The  Christian  Hero  " — written  in  the  first  instance  for  his 
own  use  while  in  the  army,  and  then  published  in  order  that  he  might 
thus  bind  himself  publicly  to  the  principles  he  had  advocated.  Steele's 
first  comedy,  "  Grief  a  la  Mode,"  had  much  success  and  long  held  a 
place  on  the  stage.  It  was  followed  by  several  other  pieces  with  vary- 
ing fortune.  As  a  dramatic  writer  Steele  was  anxious,  as  many  of 
his  papers  show,  together  with  Addison  and  others,  to  hasten  the 
time  when  the  morals  of  the  age  should  be  reformed  by  a  well-regulated 
theatre.  But  though  Steele  had  considerable  success  both  as  a  play- 
writer  and  as  a  pamphleteer,  he  owes  his  chief  reputation  to  his  efforts 
as  an  essayist.  The  "  Tatler,"  which  he  commenced  in  1709,  was  the 
beginning  of  a  new  era  in  periodical  writing.  The  paper  appeared 
three  times  a  week,  with  some  items  of  news,  especially  on  foreign 
affairs,  respecting  which  his  position  as  Gazetteer  enabled  him  to  ob- 
tain the  earliest  information ;  but  the  distinctive  point  of  the  "  Tatler  " 
was  the  papers  which  it  contained  on  the  moral,  social,  and  economical 
topics  of  the  day,  interspersed  with  literary  and  theatrical  notices ;  the 
model  thus  formed  has  been  copied  down  to  the  present  day  in  many 
contemporary  weekly  journals.  The  "Tatler"  was  followed  in  171 1 
by  the  "  Spectator,"  in  1713  by  the  "  Guardian,"  and  by  a  succession 
of  other  journals  of  similar  nature,  among  which  were  the  "  Rambler" 
and  the  "  Idler."  To  his  association  with  the  great  name  of  Addison, 
even  more  than  to  his  own  merits,  Steele  owes  the  reputation  he  has 
acquired  in  English  literature.  He  possesses  considerable  dramatic 
and  descriptive  power;  his  style  is  ordinarily  light  and  graceful,  well 
fitted  to  the  somewhat  ephemeral  subjects  about  which  he  commonly 
writes.  But  in  his  more  serious  moods  he  is  not  without  a  certain 
unaffected  tenderness,  which  has  the  powerful  charm  of  sincerity.  The 
essays  given  here  were  contributed  to  the  "  Tatler  "  and  the  "  Spec- 
tator," respectively. 


170 


A  SCENE  OF  DOMESTIC   FELICITY 

Interea  dulces  pendent  circum  oscula  nati, 

Casta  pudicitiam  servat  donius. — Virgil,  "  Georgics,"  ii.  523. 

His  cares  are  eas'd  with  intervals  of  bliss ; 

His  little  children,  climbing  for  a  kiss, 

Welcome  their  father's  late  return  at  night. 

His  faithful  bed  is  crown'd  with  chaste  delight. — Dryden. 

THERE  are  several  persons  who  have  many  pleasures  and 
entertainments  in  their  possession,  which  they  do  not 
enjoy.  It  is,  therefore,  a  kind  and  good  office  to  ac- 
quaint them  with  their  own  happiness,  and  turn  their  attention 
to  such  instances  of  their  good  fortune  as  they  are  apt  to  over- 
look. Persons  in  the  married  state  often  want  such  a  monitor ; 
and  pine  away  their  days,  by  looking  upon  the  same  condition 
in  anguish  and  murmur,  which  carries  with  it  in  the  opinion 
of  others  a  complication  of  all  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  a  retreat 
from  its  inquietudes. 

I  am  led  into  this  thought  by  a  visit  I  made  an  old  friend, 
who  was  formerly  my  schoolfellow.  He  came  to  town  last 
week  with  his  family  for  the  winter,  and  yesterday  morning  sent 
me  word  his  wife  expected  me  to  dinner.  I  am,  as  it  were,  at 
home  at  that  house,  and  every  member  of  it  knows  me  for  their 
well-wisher.  I  cannot,  indeed,  express  the  pleasures  it  is,  to  be 
met  by  the  children  with  so  much  joy  as  I  am  when  I  go  thither. 
The  boys  and  girls  strive  who  shall  come  first,  when  they  think 
it  is  I  that  am  knocking  at  the  door ;  and  that  child  which  loses 
the  race  to  me  runs  back  again  to  tell  the  father  it  is  Mr.  Bicker- 
staflf.^  This  day  I  was  led  in  by  a  pretty  girl,  that  we  all  thought 
must  have  forgot  me,  for  the  family  has  been  out  of  town  these 
two  years.  Her  knowing  me  again  was  a  mighty  subject  with 
us,  and  took  up  our  discourse  at  the  first  entrance.  After  which, 
they  began  to  rally  me  upon  a  thousand  little  stories  they  heard 

1  Swift    borrowed    the    name    from    a       sure  to  gain  "  an  audience  of  all  who 
locksmith's  sign,  and  Steele  adojjted  it       had  any  taste  of  wit." 
because,  from  Swift's  use  of  it,  it  was 

171 


172  STEELE 

in  the  country,  about  my  marriage  to  one  of  my  neighbor's 
daughters.  Upon  which  the  gentleman,  my  friend,  said,  "  Nay, 
if  Mr.  Bickerstafif  marries  a  child  of  any  of  his  old  companions, 
I  hope  mine  shall  have  the  preference ;  there  is  Mrs.  Mary  is 
now  sixteen,  and  would  make  him  as  fine  a  widow  as  the  best  of 
them.  But  I  know  him  too  well :  he  is  so  enamoured  with  the 
very  memory  of  those  who  flourished  in  our  youth,  that  he  will 
not  so  much  as  look  upon  the  modern  beauties.  I  remember, 
old  gentleman,  how  often  you  went  home  in  a  day  to  refresh 
your  countenance  and  dress  when  Teraminta  reigned  in  your 
heart.  As  we  came  up  in  the  coach,  I  repeated  to  my  wife  some 
of  your  verses  on  her."  With  such  reflections  on  little  passages 
which  happened  long  ago,  we  passed  our  time,  during  a  cheerful 
and  elegant  meal.  After  dinner,  his  lady  left  the  room,  as  did 
also  the  children.  As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  he  took  me  by  the 
hand ;  "  Well,  my  good  friend,"  says  he,  "  I  am  heartily  glad  to 
see  thee ;  I  was  afraid  you  would  never  have  seen  all  the  com- 
pany that  dined  with  you  to-day  again.  Do  not  you  think  the 
good  woman  of  the  house  a  little  altered,  since  you  followed  her 
from  the  playhouse,  to  find  out  who  she  was,  for  me  ?  "  I  per- 
ceived a  tear  fall  down  his  cheek  as  he  spoke,  which  moved  me 
not  a  httle.  But,  to  turn  the  discourse,  I  said,  "  She  is  not  in- 
deed quite  that  creature  she  was,  when  she  returned  me  the 
letter  I  carried  from  you ;  and  told  me,  *  she  hoped,  as  I  was  a 
gentleman,  I  would  be  employed  no  more  to  trouble  her,  who 
had  never  offended  me ;  but  would  be  so  much  the  gentleman's 
friend,  as  to  dissuade  him  from  a  pursuit,  which  he  could  never 
succeed  in.'  You  may  remember,  I  thought  her  in  earnest; 
and  you  were  forced  to  employ  your  cousin  Will,  who  made 
his  sister  get  acquainted  with  her,  for  you.  You  cannot  expect 
her  to  be  forever  fifteen."  "  Fifteen  !  "  replied  my  good  friend : 
"  Ah !  you  little  understand,  you  that  have  lived  a  bachelor, 
how  great,  how  exquisite  a  pleasure  there  is,  in  being  really  be- 
loved !  It  is  impossible,  that  the  most  beauteous  face  in  nature 
should  raise  in  me  such  pleasing  ideas,  as  when  I  look  upon  that 
excellent  woman.  That  fading  in  her  countenance  is  chiefly 
caused  by  her  watching  with  me  in  my  fever.  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  fit  of  sickness,  which  had  like  to  have  carried  her 
off  last  winter.  I  tell  you  sincerely,  I  have  so  many  obligations 
to  her,  that  I  cannot,  with  any  sort  of  moderation,  think  of  her 


A   SCENE   OF   DOMESTIC   FELICITY 


173 


present  state  of  health.  But  as  to  what  you  say  of  fifteen,  she 
gives  me  every  day  pleasures  beyond  what  I  ever  knew  in  the 
possession  of  her  beauty,  when  I  was  in  the  vigor  of  youth. 
Every  moment  of  her  life  brings  me  fresh  instances  of  her  com- 
placency to  my  inclinations,  and  her  prudence  in  regard  to  my 
fortune.  Her  face  is  to  me  much  more  beautiful  than  when  I 
first  saw  it ;  there  is  no  decay  in  any  feature,  which  I  cannot 
trace,  from  the  very  instant  it  was  occasioned  by  some  anxious 
concern  for  my  welfare  and  interests.  Thus,  at  the  same  time, 
methinks,  the  love  I  conceived  towards  her  for  what  she  was, 
is  heightened  by  my  gratitude  for  what  she  is.  The  love  of  a 
wife  is  as  much  above  the  idle  passion  commonly  called  by  that 
name,  as  the  loud  laughter  of  bufifoons  is  inferior  to  the  elegant 
mirth  of  gentlemen.  Oh,  she  is  an  inestimable  jewel !  In  her 
examination  of  her  household  affairs,  she  shows  a  certain  fear- 
fulness  to  find  a  fault,  which  makes  her  servants  obey  her  like 
children ;  and  the  meanest  we  have  has  an  ingenuous  shame  for 
an  offence,  not  always  to  be  seen  in  children  in  other  families. 
I  speak  freely  to  you,  my  old  friend ;  ever  since  her  sickness, 
things  that  gave  me  the  quickest  joy  before,  turn  now  to  a  cer- 
tain anxiety.  As  the  children  play  in  the  next  room,  I  know  the 
poor  things  by  their  steps,  and  am  considering  what  they  must 
do,  should  they  lose  their  mother  in  their  tender  years.  The 
pleasure  I  used  to  take  in  telling  my  boy  stories  of  battles,  and 
asking  my  girl  questions  about  the  disposal  of  her  baby,  and  the 
gossiping  of  it,  is  turned  into  inward  reflection  and  melancholy." 
He  would  have  gone  on  in  this  tender  way,  when  the  good 
lady  entered,  and  with  an  inexpressible  sweetness  in  her  coun- 
tenance told  us,  "  she  had  been  searching  her  closet  for  some- 
thing very  good,  to  treat  such  an  old  friend  as  I  was."  Her 
husband's  eye  sparkled  with  pleasure  at  the  cheerfulness  of  her 
countenance ;  and  I  saw  all  his  fears  vanish  in  an  instant.  The 
lady  observing  something  in  our  looks  which  showed  we  had 
been  more  serious  than  ordinary,  and  seeing  her  husband  re- 
ceive her  with  great  concern  under  a  forced  cheerfulness,  im- 
mediately guessed  at  what  we  had  been  talking  of;  and  ap- 
plying herself  to  me,  said,  with  a  smile,  "  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  do 
not  believe  a  word  of  what  he  tells  you ;  I  shall  still  live  to  have 
you  for  my  second,  as  I  have  often  promised  you,  unless  he 
takes  more  care  of  himself  than  he  has  done  since  his  coming 


174  STEELE 

to  town.  You  must  know,  he  tells  me  he  finds  London  is  a 
much  more  healthy  place  than  the  country ;  for  he  sees  several 
of  his  old  acquaintances  and  schoolfellows  are  here  young  fel- 
lows with  fair  full-bottomed  periwigs.'  I  could  scarce  keep 
him  this  morning  from  going  out  open-breasted."  My  friend, 
who  is  always  extremely  delighted  with  her  agreeable  humor, 
made  her  sit  down  with  us.  She  did  it  with  that  easiness  which 
is  peculiar  to  women  of  sense ;  and  to  keep  up  the  good  humor 
she  had  brought  in  with  her,  turned  her  raillery  upon  me. 
"  Mr.  Bickerstafif,  you  remember  you  followed  me  one  night 
from  the  play-house :  suppose  you  should  carry  me  thither  to- 
morrow night,  and  lead  me  into  the  front  box."  This  put  us 
into  a  long  field  of  discourse  about  the  beauties,  who  were 
mothers  to  the  present,  and  shined  in  the  boxes  twenty  years 
ago.  I  told  her,  "  I  was  glad  she  had  transferred  so  many  of  her 
charms,  and  I  did  not  question  but  her  eldest  daughter  was 
within  half  a  year  of  being  a  toast."  ^ 

We  were  pleasing  ourselves  with  this  fantastical  preferment 
of  the  young  lady,  when  on  a  sudden  we  were  alarmed  with  the 
noise  of  a  drum,  and  immediately  entered  my  little  godson  to 
give  me  a  point  of  war.  His  mother,  between  laughing  and 
chiding,  would  have  put  him  out  of  the  room  ;  but  I  would  not 
part  with  him  so.  I  found,  upon  conversation  with  him,  though 
he  was  a  little  noisy  in  his  mirth,  that  the  child  had  excellent 
parts,  and  was  a  great  master  of  all  the  learning  on  the  other 
side  eight  years  old.  I  perceived  him  a  very  great  historian  in 
iEsop's  Fables :  but  he  frankly  declared  to  me  his  mind,  "  that 
he  did  not  delight  in  that  learning,  because  he  did  not  believe 
they  were  true  " ;  for  which  reason  I  found  he  had  very  much 
turned  his  studies,  for  about  a  twelvemonth  past,  into  the  lives 
and  adventures  of  Don  Bellianis  of  Greece,  Guy  of  Warwick, 
the  Seven  Champions,  and  other  historians  of  that  age.  I  could 
not  but  observe  the  satisfaction  the  father  took  in  the  forward- 
ness of  his  son ;  and  that  these  diversions  might  turn  to  some 
profit,  I  found  the  boy  had  made  remarks  which  might  be  of 
service  to  him  during  the  course  of  his  whole  life.    He  would 

'A   privilege  allowed   only   to   young  vogue  in  Anne's  reign.    At  the  age  of 

beaux.     In        Tatler,"    No.    246,    Steele  seventeen   every   young   lady   of   quality 

reproves   "  a  fat  fellow  for  wearing  his  expected  to  become  a  toast  at  some  club, 

breast  open  in  the  midst  of  winter  out  more    especially    at    the    _Kit-Cat._    The 

of  an  affectation  of  youth."  locus  classicus  on  the  subject   is   in  the 

•  An   institution  that   first   came   into  24th  "  Tatler." 


A   SCENE   OF  DOMESTIC   FELICITY  175 

tell  you  the  mismanagements  of  John  Hickathrift,  find  fault 
with  the  passionate  temper  in  Bevis  of  Southampton,  and  loved 
Saint  George  for  being  the  champion  of  England ;  and  by  this 
means  had  his  thoughts  insensibly  moulded  into  the  notions  of 
discretion,  virtue,  and  honor.  I  was  extolling  his  accomplish- 
ments, when  his  mother  told  me  that  the  little  girl  who  led  me 
in  this  morning  was  in  her  way  a  better  scholar  than  he.  "  Bet- 
ty," said  she,  "  deals  chiefly  in  fairies  and  sprites,  and  some- 
times in  a  winter  night  will  terrify  the  maids  with  her  accounts, 
until  they  are  afraid  to  go  up  to  bed." 

I  sat  with  them  until  it  was  very  late,  sometimes  in  merry, 
sometimes  in  serious  discourse,  with  this  particular  pleasure, 
which  gives  the  only  true  relish  to  all  conversation,  a  sense  that 
every  one  of  us  liked  each  other.  I  went  home  considering  the 
different  conditions  of  a  married  life  and  that  of  a  bachelor ;  and 
I  must  confess  it  struck  me  with  a  secret  concern,  to  reflect,  that 
whenever  I  go  ofif  I  shall  leave  no  traces  behind  me.  In  this 
pensive  mood  I  return  to  my  family  :  that  is  to  say,  to  my  maid, 
my  dog,  and  my  cat,  who  only  can  be  the  better  or  worse  for 
what  happens  to  me. 


A  DEATH-BED   SCENE 

Ut  in  vita,  sic  in  studiis,  pulcherrimunt  et  humanissimum  existimo 
scveritatem  comitatemque  miscere,  ne  ilia  in  tristitiam,  hcec  in  petulan- 
tiam  procedat. — Pliny. 

As  in  a  man's  life,  so  in  his  studies,  I  think  it  the  most  beautiful  and 
humane  thing  in  the  world,  so  to  mingle  gravity  with  pleasantry,  that 
the  one  may  not  sink  into  melancholy,  nor  the  other  rise  up  into  wanton- 
ness. 

I  WAS  walking  about  my  chamber  this  morning  in  a  very; 
gay  humor,  when  I  saw  a  coach  stop  at  my  door,  and  a 
youth  about  fifteen  alighting  out  of.  it,  whom  I  perceived 
to  be  the  eldest  son  of  my  bosom  friend  that  I  gave  some  account 
of  in  my  paper  of  the  seventeenth  of  the  last  month.  I  felt  a 
sensible  pleasure  rising  in  me  at  the  sight  of  him,  my  ac- 
quaintance having  begun  with  his  father  when  he  was  just  such 
a  stripling,  and  about  that  very  age.  When  he  came  up  to  me 
he  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  burst  out  in  tears.  I  was  extremely 
moved,  and  immediately  said,  "  Child,  how  does  your  father 

do  ?  "    He  began  to  reply,  "  My  mother "  but  could  not  go 

on  for  weeping.  I  went  down  with  him  into  the  coach,  and 
gathered  out  of  him,  that  his  mother  was  then  dying ;  and  that, 
while  the  holy  man  was  doing  the  last  offices  to  her,  he  had 
taken  that  time  to  come  and  call  me  to  his  father,  who,  he  said, 
would  certainly  break  his  heart,  if  I  did  not  go  and  comfort 
him.  The  child's  discretion  in  coming  to  me  of  his  own  head, 
and  the  tenderness  he  showed  for  his  parents,  would  have  quite 
overpowered  me,  had  I  not  resolved  to  fortify  myself  for  the 
seasonable  performances  of  those  duties  which  I  owed  to  my 
friend.  As  we  were  going,  I  could  not  but  reflect  upon  the 
character  of  that  excellent  woman,  and  the  greatness  of  his 
grief  for  the  loss  of  one  who  has  ever  been  the  support  to  him 
under  all  other  afflictions.  How,  thought  I,  will  he  be  able  to 
bear  the  hour  of  her  death,  that  could  not,  when  I  was  lately 

177 


178  STEELE 

with  him,  speak  of  a  sickness,  which  was  then  past,  without 
sorrow  ?  We  were  now  got  pretty  far  into  Westminster,  and 
arrived  at  my  friend's  house.  At  the  door  of  it  I  met  Favonius, 
not  without  a  secret  satisfaction  to  find  he  had  been  there.  I 
had  formerly  conversed  with  him  at  this  house ;  and  as  he 
abounds  with  that  sort  of  virtue  and  knowledge  which  make 
religion  beautiful,  and  never  leads  the  conversation  into  the 
violence  and  rage  of  party  disputes,  I  listened  to  him  with  great 
pleasure.  Our  discourse  chanced  to  be  upon  the  subject  of 
death,  which  he  treated  with  such  a  strength  of  reason,  and 
greatness  of  soul,  that,  instead  of  being  terrible,  it  appeared  to 
a  mind  rightly  cultivated,  altogether  to  be  contemned,  or  rather 
to  be  desired.  As  I  met  him  at  the  door,  I  saw  in  his  face  a 
certain  glowing  of  grief  and  humanity,  heightened  with  an  air 
of  fortitude  and  resolution,  which,  as  I  afterwards  found,  had 
such  an  irresistible  force,  as  to  suspend  the  pains  of  the  dying, 
and  the  lamentation  of  the  nearest  friends  who  attended  her. 
I  went  up  directly  to  the  room  where  she  lay,  and  was  met  at  the 
entrance  by  my  friend,  who,  notwithstanding  his  thoughts  had 
been  composed  a  little  before,  at  the  sight  of  me  turned  away  his 
face  and  wept.  The  little  family  of  children  renewed  the  ex- 
pressions of  their  sorrow  according  to  their  several  ages  and 
degrees  of  understanding.  The  eldest  daughter  was  in  tears, 
busied  in  attendance  upon  her  mother;  others  were  kneeling 
about  the  bedside ;  and  what  troubled  me  most,  was,  to  see  a 
little  boy,  who  was  too  young  to  know  the  reason,  weeping  only 
because  his  sisters  did.  The  only  one  in  the  room  who  seemed 
resigned  and  comforted  was  the  dying  person.  At  my  ap- 
proach to  the  bedside  she  told  me,  with  a  low  broken  voice, 
"  This  is  kindly  done — take  care  of  your  friend — do  not  go  from 
him."  She  had  before  taken  leave  of  her  husband  and  children, 
in  a  manner  proper  for  so  solemn  a  parting,  and  with  a  grace- 
fulness peculiar  to  a  woman  of  her  character.  My  heart  was 
torn  in  pieces,  to  see  the  husband  on  one  side  suppressing  and 
keeping  down  the  swellings  of  his  grief,  for  fear  of  disturbing 
her  in  her  last  moments ;  and  the  wife,  even  at  that  time,  con- 
cealing the  pains  she  endured,  for  fear  of  increasing  his  afflic- 
tion. She  kept  her  eyes  upon  him  for  some  moments  after  she 
grew  speechless,  and  soon  after  closed  them  forever.  In  the  mo- 
ment of  her  departure,  my  friend,  who  had  thus  far  commanded 


A   DEATH-BED   SCENE  179 

himself,  gave  a  deep  groan,  and  fell  into  a  swoon  by  her  bed- 
side.^ The  distraction  of  the  children,  who  thought  they  saw 
both  their  parents  expiring  together,  and  now  lying  dead  before 
them,  would  have  melted  the  hardest  heart ;  but  they  soon  per- 
ceived their  father  recover,  whom  I  helped  to  remove  into 
another  room,  with  a  resolution  to  accompany  him  until  the 
first  pangs  of  his  affliction  were  abated.  I  knew  consolation 
would  now  be  impertinent,  and  therefore  contented  myself  to 
sit  by  him,  and  condole  with  him  in  silence.  For  I  shall  here 
use  the  method  of  an  ancient  author,^  who,  in  one  of  his  epistles, 
relating  the  virtues  and  death  of  Macrinus's  wife,  expresses 
himself  thus :  "  I  shall  suspend  my  advice  to  this  best  of  friends 
until  he  is  made  capable  of  receiving  it  by  those  three  great 
remedies,  the  necessity  of  submission,  length  of  time,  and  sati- 
ety of  grief." 

In  the  mean  time,  I  cannot  but  consider,  with  much  commis- 
eration, the  melancholy  state  of  one  who  has  had  such  a  part  of 
himself  torn  from  him,  and  which  he  misses  in  every  circum- 
stance of  life.  His  condition  is  like  that  of  one  who  has  lately 
lost  his  right  arm,  and  is  every  moment  offering  to  help  himself 
with  it.  He  does  not  appear  to  himself  the  same  person  in  his 
house,  at  his  table,  in  company,  or  in  retirement ;  and  loses  the 
relish  of  all  the  pleasures  and  diversions  that  were  before  enter- 
taining to  him  by  her  participation  of  them.  The  most  agreeable 
objects  recall  the  sorrow  for  her  with  whom  he  used  to  enjoy 
them.  This  additional  satisfaction,  from  the  taste  of  pleasures 
in  the  society  of  one  we  love,  is  admirably  described  by  Mil- 
ton, who  represents  Eve,  though  in  Paradise  itself,  no  further 
pleased  with  the  beautiful  objects  around  her,  than  as  she  sees 
them  in  company  with  Adam,  in  that  passage  so  inexpressibly 
charming : 

"  With  thee  conversing,  I  forget  all  time ; 
All  seasons,  and  their  change ;   all  please  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds ;   pleasant  the  sun, 

1  With  this  sentence  Steele's  share  in  pression.  Thus,  while  Addison  ends 
the  paper  stops.  The  rest  has  always  this  essay  incongruously  .with  a  frag^ 
been  assigned  to  Addison,  and  it  is  in-  ment  of  criticism,  Steele  is  quite  over- 
structive  to  compare  his  conclusion  come,  and  "  commended  the  hamper  of 
with  Steele's  in  "  Tatler,"  281.  Steele's  wine  until  two  of  the  clock  this  mom- 
emotion  kept  pace  with  his  imagination,  ing." 
while  Addison  constantly  checked  his  "  Seneca, 
from  an  over-regard  for  "  elegant "  ex- 


;i8o  STEELE 

When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,  fruit,  and  flower. 
Glistering  with  dew ;   fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  showers ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild ;   the  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these  the  gems  of  heaven,  her  starry  train. 
But  neither  breath  of  morn  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds ;  nor  rising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land ;   nor  herb,  fruit,  flower. 
Glistering  with  dew;  nor  fragrance  after  showers; 
Nor  grateful  evening  mild ;   nor  silent  night. 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  moon, 
Or  glittering  star-light,  without  thee  is  sweet." 

The  variety  of  images  in  this  passage  is  infinitely  pleasing, 
and  the  recapitulation  of  each  particular  image,  with  a  little 
varying  of  the  expression,  makes  one  of  the  finest  turns  of  words 
that  I  have  ever  seen;  which  I  rather  mention  because  Mr. 
Dryden^  has  said,  in  his  preface  to  Juvenal,  that  he  could  meet 
with  no  turn  of  words  in  Milton. 

It  may  be  further  observed,  that  though  the  sweetness  of 
these  verses  has  something  in  it  of  a  pastoral,  yet  it  excels  the 
ordinary  kind,  as  much  as  the  scene  of  it  is  above  an  ordinary 
field  or  meadow.  I  might  here,  since  I  am  accidentally  led  into 
this  subject,  show  several  passages  in  Milton  that  have  as  ex- 
cellent turns  of  this  nature  as  any  of  our  English  poets  what- 
soever ;  but  shall  only  mention  that  which  follows,  in  which  he 
describes  the  fallen  angels  engaged  in  the  intricate  disputes  of 
predestination,  free-will,  and  fore-knowledge ;  and,  to  humor 
the  perplexity,  makes  a  kind  of  labyrinth  in  the  very  words  that 
describe  it: 

"  Others  apart  sat  on  a  hill  retir'd. 
In  thoughts  more  elevate,  and  reason'd  high 
Of  providence,  fore-knowledge,  will,  and  fate, 
Fix'd  fate,  free-will,  fore-knowledge  absolute, 
And  found  no  end,  in  wandering  mazes  lost." 

•  Near  the  end  of  his  "  Discourse  on       turns  of  thoughts  and  words,"  but  that 
Satire."  Dryden  says  that  he  searched       he  found  none  in  Cowley  or  in  Milton. 
the  older  poets  in  quest  of  "  beautiful 


THE  TRUMPET  CLUB 

Haheo  senectuti  magnam  gratiam,  qua  mihi  sermonis  aviditatem  auxit, 
potionis  et  cibi  sustulit. — Cicero,  "  de  Senectute." 

I  am  much  beholden  to  old  age,  which  has  increased  my  eagerness  for 
conversation,  in  proportion  as  it  has  lessened  my  appetites  of  hunger  and 
thirst. 

AFTER  having  applied  my  mind  with  more  than  ordinary- 
attention  to  my  studies,  it  is  my  usual  custom  to  relax 
and  unbend  it  in  the  conversation  of  such  as  are  rather 
easy  than  shining  companions.^  This  I  find  particularly  neces- 
sary for  me  before  I  retire  to  rest,  in  order  to  draw  my  slum- 
bers upon  me  by  degrees,  and  fall  asleep  insensibly.  This  is 
the  particular  use  I  make  of  a  set  of  heavy  honest  men,  with 
whom  I  have  passed  many  hours  with  much  indolence,  though 
not  with  great  pleasure.  Their  conversation  is  a  kind  of  pre- 
parative for  sleep ;  it  takes  the  mind  down  from  its  abstractions, 
leads  it  into  the  familiar  traces  of  thought,  and  lulls  it  into  that 
state  of  tranquillity,  which  is  the  condition  of  a  thinking  man, 
when  he  is  but  half  awake.  After  this,  my  reader  will  not  be 
surprised  to  hear  the  account  which  I  am  about  to  give  of  a 
club  of  my  own  contemporaries,  among  whom  I  pass  two  or 
three  hours  every  evening.  This  I  look  upon  as  taking  my 
first  nap  before  I  go  to  bed.  The  truth  of  it  is,  I  should  think 
myself  unjust  to  posterity,  as  well  as  to  the  society  at  the  Trum- 
pet,^ of  which  I  am  a  member,  did  not  I  in  some  part  of  my 
writings  give  an  account  of  the  persons  among  whom  I  have 
passed  almost  a  sixth  part  of  my  time  for  these  last  forty  years. 
Our  club  consisted  originally  of  fifteen ;  but,  partly  by  the  se- 
verity of  the  law  in  arbitrary  times,  and  partly  by  the  natural 

*  As  clubs  are  of  some  interest  to  stu-  the  present  writer  has  to   express  spe- 

dents    of    the    English    essay,    reference  cial  obligations. 

may  be  made  to  Timbs's  "  History  of  *  A    tavern    in    Shire    Lane,    near   the 

Clubs  and  Club  Life,"  and  to  Ashton's  new    Courts    of    Justice.    The    Kit-Cat 

"  Social    Life   in   the    Reign    of    Queen  Club  also  originated  here  about  1700. 
Anne."    To    the    latter    excellent    book 

181 


i82  STEELE 

effects  of  old  age,  we  are  at  present  reduced  to  a  third  part  of 
that  number ;  in  which,  however,  we  have  this  consolation,  that 
the  best  company  is  said  to  consist  of  five  persons.  I  must  con- 
fess, besides  the  aforementioned  benefit  which  I  meet  with  in 
the  conversation  of  this  select  society,  I  am  not  the  less  pleased 
with  the  company,  in  that  I  find  myself  the  greatest  wit  among 
them,  and  am  heard  as  their  oracle  in  all  points  of  learning  and 
difficulty. 

Sir  Jeoffery  Notch,  who  is  the  oldest  of  the  club,  has  been  in 
possession  of  the  right-hand  chair  time  out  of  mind,  and  is  the 
only  man  among  us  that  has  the  liberty  of  stirring  the  fire.  This 
our  foreman  is  a  gentleman  of  an  ancient  family,  that  came  to 
a  great  estate  some  years  before  he  had  discretion,  and  run  it 
out  in  hounds,  horses,  and  cock-fighting;  for  which  reason  he 
looks  upon  himself  as  an  honest,  worthy  gentleman,  who  has 
had  misfortunes  in  the  world,  and  calls  every  thriving  man  a 
pitiful  upstart.. 

Major  Matchlock  is  the  next  senior,  who  served  in  the  last 
civil  wars,  and  has  all  the  battles  by  heart.  He  does  not  think 
any  action  in  Europe  worth  talking  of  since  the  fight  of  Marston 
Moor;  and  every  night  tells  us  of  having  been  knocked  off  his 
horse  at  the  rising^  of  the  London  apprentices ;  for  which  he  is 
in  great  esteem  among  us. 

Honest  old  Dick  Reptile  is  the  third  of  our  society.  He  is  a 
good-natured  indolent  man,  who  speaks  little  himself,  but 
laughs  at  our  jokes ;  and  brings  his  young  nephew  along  with 
him,  a  youth  of  eighteen  years  old,  to  show  him  good  company, 
and  give  him  a  taste  of  the  world.  This  young  fellow  sits  gen- 
erally silent ;  but  whenever  he  opens  his  mouth,  or  laughs  at 
anything  that  passes,  he  is  constantly  told  by  his  uncle,  after  a 
jocular  manner,  "  Ay,  ay.  Jack,  you  young  men  think  us  fools ; 
but  we  old  men  know  you  are." 

The  greatest  wit  of  our  company,  next  to  myself,  is  a 
bencher  of  the  neighboring  inn,  who  in  his  youth  frequented 
the  ordinaries*  about  Charing-cross,  and  pretends  to  have  been 
intimate  with  Jack  Ogle.  He  has  about  ten  distichs  of  Hudi- 
bras  without  book,  and  never  leaves  the  club  until  he  has  applied 

•July  T4.  1647.  of    the    time.    Cf.    "Tale    of    a    Tub,"- 

*  Locket's    Ordinary    at    Charing-cross        sec,  2, 

was  one  of  the  fashionable  restauraats 


THE   TRUMPET  CLUB  183 

them  all.  If  any  modern  wit  be  mentioned,  or  any  town-frolic 
spoken  of,  he  shakes  his  head  at  the  dulness  of  the  present  age, 
and  tells  us  a  story  of  Jack  Ogle. 

For  my  own  part,  I  am  esteemed  among  them,  because  they 
see  I  am  something  respected  by  others;  though  at  the  same 
time  I  understand  by  their  behavior,  that  I  am  considered  by 
them  as  a  man  of  a  great  deal  of  learning,  but  no  knowledge  of 
the  world ;  insomuch,  that  the  major  sometimes,  in  the  height 
of  his  military  pride,  calls  me  the  Philosopher :  and  Sir  Jeoffery, 
no  longer  ago  than  last  night,  upon  a  dispute  what  day  of  the 
"  month  it  was  then  in  Holland,  pulled  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth, 
and  cried,  "  What  does  the  scholar  say  to  it  ?  " 

Our  club  meets  precisely  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening ;  but  I 
did  not  come  last  night  until  half  an  hour  after  seven,  by  which 
means  I  escaped  the  battle  of  Naseby,  which  the  major  usually 
begins  at  about  three-quarters  after  six :  I  found  also,  that  my 
good  friend  the  bencher  had  already  spent  three  of  his  distichs ; 
and  only  waited  an  opportunity  to  hear  a  sermon  spoken  of,  that 
he  might  introduce  the  couplet  where  "  a  stick  "  rhymes  to 
"  ecclesiastic."  At  my  entrance  into  the  room,  they  were  nam- 
ing a  red  petticoat  and  a  cloak,  by  which  I  found  that  the 
bencher  had  been  diverting  them  with  a  story  of  Jack  Ogle. 

I  had  no  sooner  taken  my  seat,  but  Sir  JeofFery,  to  show  his 
goodwill  towards  me,  gave  me  a  pipe  of  his  own  tobacco,  and 
stirred  up  the  fire.  I  look  upon  it  as  a  point  of  morality,  to  be 
obliged  by  those  who  endeavor  to  oblige  me ;  and  therefore,  in 
requital  for  his  kindness,  and  to  set  the  conversation  a-going,  I 
took  the  best  occasion  I  could  to  put  him  upon  telling  us  the 
story  of  old  Gantlett,"^  which  he  always  does  with  very  particu- 
lar concern.  He  traced  up  his  descent  on  both  sides  for  several 
generations,  describing  his  diet  and  manner  of  life,  with  his 
several  battles,  and  particularly  that  in  which  he  fell.  This 
Gantlett  was  a  game  cock,  upon  whose  head  the  knight,  in  his 
youth,  had  won  five  hundred  pounds,  and  lost  two  thousand. 
This  naturally  set  the  major  upon  the  account  of  Edge-hill  fight, 
and  ended  in  a  duel  of  Jack  Ogle's. 

Old  Reptile  was  extremely  attentive  to  all  that  was  said, 
though  it  was  the  same  he  had  heard  every  night  for  these 

^  Cock-fighting  was  then  a  favorite  pastime.  As  much  as  500  guineas  was 
staked  on  an  inter-county  match. 


1 84  STEELE 

twenty  years,  and,  upon  all  occasions,  winked  upon  his  nephew 
to  mind  what  passed. 

This  may  suffice  to  give  the  world  a  taste  of  our  innocent 
conversation,  which  we  spun  out  until  about  ten  of  the  clock, 
when  my  maid  came  with  a  lantern  to  light  me  home.  I  could 
not  but  reflect  with  myself,  as  I  was  going  out,  upon  the  talk- 
ative humor  of  old  men,  and  the  little  figure  which  that  part  of 
life  makes  in  one  who  cannot  employ  his  natural  propensity  in 
discourses  which  would  make  him  venerable.  I  must  own,  it 
makes  me  very  melancholy  in  company,  when  I  hear  a  young 
man  begin  a  story ;  and  have  often  observed,  that  one  of  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  long  in  a  man  of  five-and-twenty,  gathers  circum- 
stances every  time  he  tells  it,  until  it  grows  into  a  long  Canter- 
bury tale  of  two  hours,  by  that  time  he  is  threescore. 

The  only  way  of  avoiding  such  a  trifling  and  frivolous  old 
age,  is  to  lay  up  in  our  way  to  it  such  stores  of  knowledge  and 
observation,  as  may  make  us  useful  and  agreeable  in  our  de- 
clining years.  The  mind  of  man  in  a  long  life  will  become  a 
magazine  of  wisdom  or  folly,  and  will  consequently  discharge 
itself  in  something  impertinent  or  improving.  For  which  rea- 
son, as  there  is  nothing  more  ridiculous  than  an  old  trifling 
story-teller,  so  there  is  nothing  more  venerable  than  one  who 
has  turned  his  experience  to  the  entertainment  and  advantage 
of  mankind. 

In  short,  we,  who  are  in  the  last  stage  of  life,  and  are  apt  to 
indulge  ourselves  in  talk,  ought  to  consider  if  what  we  speak 
be  worth  being  heard,  and  endeavor  to  make  our  discourse  like 
that  of  Nestor,  which  Homer  compares  to  the  flowing  of  honey 
for  its  sweetness. 

I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  thought  guilty  of  this  excess  I  am 
speaking  of,  when  I  cannot  conclude  without  observing  that 
Milton  certainly  thought  of  this  passage  in  Homer,  when,  in  hie 
description  of  an  eloquent  spirit,  he  says : — 
"  His  tongue  dropoed  manna." 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  FRIENDS 

Dies,  ni  fallor,  adest,  quern  semper  acerhum, 
Semper  honoratum,  sic  dii  voluistis,  habebo. — Virgil,  "  ^neid,"  v.  49, 

And  HOW  the  rising  day  renews  the  year, 
A  day  forever  sad,  forever  dear. — Dryden. 

THERE  are  those  among  mankind,  who  can  enjoy  no  relish' 
of  their  being,  except  the  world  is  made  acquainted  witH 
all  that  relates  to  them,  and  think  everything  lost  that 
passes  unobserved ;  but  others  find  a  solid  delight  in  stealing 
by  the  crowd,  and  modelling  their  life  after  such  a  manner  as  is 
as  much  above  the  approbation  as  the  practice  of  the  vulgar. 
Life  being  too  short  to  give  instances  great  enough  of  true 
friendship  or  goodwill,  some  sages  have  thought  it  pious  to  pre- 
serve a  certain  reverence  for  the  Manes  of  their  deceased 
friends;  and  have  withdrawn  themselves  from  the  rest  of  the 
world  at  certain  seasons,  to  commemorate  in  their  own  thoughts 
such  of  their  acquaintance  who  have  gone  before  them  out  of 
this  life.  And  indeed,  when  we  are  advanced  in  years,  there  is 
not  a  more  pleasing  entertainment,  than  to  recollect  in  a  gloomy 
moment  the  many  we  have  parted  with  that  have  been  dear  and 
agreeable  to  us,  and  to  cast  a  melancholy  thought  or  two  after 
those  with  whom,  perhaps,  we  have  indulged  ourselves  in  whole 
nights  of  mirth  and  jollity.  With  such  inclinations  in  my  heart 
I  went  to  my  closet  yesterday  in  the  evening,  and  resolved  to 
be  sorrowful ;  upon  which  occasion  I  could  not  but  look  with 
disdain  upon  myself,  that  though  all  the  reasons  which  I  had 
to  lament  the  loss  of  many  of  my  friends  are  now  as  forcible  as 
at  the  moment  of  their  departure,  yet  did  not  my  heart  swell 
with  the  same  sorrow  which  I  felt  at  that  time;  but  1  could, 
without  tears,  reflect  upon  many  pleasing  adventures  I  have  had 
with  some,  who  have  long  been  blended  with  common  earth. 
Though  it  is  by  the  benefit  of  nature  that  length  of  time  thus 
blots  out  the  violence  of  afflictions ;  yet,  with  tempers  too  much 

^^5  9— Vol.  57 


1 86  STEELE 

given  to  pleasure,  it  is  almost  necessary  to  revive  the  old  places 
of  grief  in  our  memory ;  and  ponder  step  by  step  on  past  life,  to 
lead  the  mind  into  that  sobriety  of  thought  which  poises  the 
heart,  and  makes  it  beat  with  due  time,  without  being  quick- 
ened by  desire,  or  retarded  with  despair,  from  its  proper  and 
equal  motion.  When  we  wind  up  a  clock  that  is  out  of  order, 
to  make  it  go  well  for  the  future,  we  do  not  immediately  set 
the  hand  to  the  present  instant,  but  we  make  it  strike  the  round 
of  all  its  hours,  before  it  can  recover  the  regularity  of  its  time. 
Such,  thought  I,  shall  be  my  method  this  evening;  and  since 
it  is  that  day  of  the  year  which  I  dedicate  to  the  memory  of 
such  in  another  life  as  I  much  delighted  in  when  living,  an  hour 
or  two  shall  be  sacred  to  sorrow  and  their  memory,  while  I  run 
over  all  the  melancholy  circumstances  of  this  kind  which  have 
occurred  to  me  in  my  whole  life. 

The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I  ever  knew  was  upon  the  death  of 
my  father,^  at  which  time  I  was  not  quite  five  years  of  age ;  but 
was  rather  amazed  at  what  all  the  house  meant  than  possessed 
with  a  real  understanding  why  nobody  was  willing  to  play  with 
me.  I  remember  I  went  into  the  room  where  his  body  lay,  and 
my  mother  sat  weeping  alone  by  it.  I  had  my  battledore  in  my 
hand,  and  fell  a-beating  the  coffin,  and  calling  papa ;  for,  I  know 
not  how,  I  had  some  slight  idea  that  he  was  locked  up  there. 
My  mother  catched  me  in  her  arms,  and,  transported  beyond  all 
patience  of  the  silent  grief  she  was  before  in,  she  almost  smoth- 
ered me  in  her  embraces ;  and  told  me  in  a  flood  of  tears,  "  Papa 
could  not  hear  me,  and  would  play  with  me  no  more,  for  they 
were  going  to  put  him  under  ground,  whence  he  could  never 
come  to  us  again."  She  was  a  very  beautiful  woman,  of  a  noble 
spirit,  and  there  was  a  dignity  in  her  grief  amidst  all  the  wild- 
ness  of  her  transport  which,  methought,  struck  me  with  an 
instinct  of  sorrow,  that,  before  I  was  sensible  of  what  it  was  to 
grieve,  seized  my  very  soul,  and  has  made  pity  the  weakness  of 
my  heart  ever  since.  The  mind  in  infancy  is,  methinks,  like 
the  body  in  embryo ;  and  receives  impressions  so  forcible,  that 
they  are  as  hard  to  be  removed  by  reason  as  any  mark  with 
which  a  child  is  born  is  to  be  taken  away  by  any  future  applica- 

*  Steele's    father    was    a    lawyer,    and       foundation   at   the   Charterhouse,   wher2 
was  once  secretary  to  the  Duke  of  Or-       his  friendship  with  Addison  began, 
mond,    who    procured    the    essayist    a 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   FRIENDS  187 

tion.  Hence  it  is  that  good-nature  in  me  is  no  merit;  but  hav- 
ing been  so  frequently  overwhelmed  with  her  tears  before  I 
knew  the  cause  of  any  affliction,  or  could  draw  defences  from 
my  own  judgment,  I  imbibed  commiseration,  remorse,  and  an 
unmanly  gentleness  of  mind,  which  has  since  ensnared  me  into 
ten  thousand  calamities ;  from  whence  I  can  reap  no  advantage, 
except  it  be  that,  in  such  a  humor  as  I  am  now  in,  I  can  the  bet- 
ter indulge  myself  in  the  softness  of  humanity,  and  enjoy  that 
sweet  anxiety  which  arises  from  the  memory  of  past  afflictions. 

We,  that  are  very  old,  are  better  able  to  remember  things 
which  befell  us  in  our  distant  youth  than  the  passages  of  later 
days.  For  this  reason  it  is  that  the  companions  of  my  strong 
and  vigorous  years  present  themselves  more  immediately  to  me 
in  this  office  of  sorrow.  Untimely  and  unhappy  deaths  are 
what  we  are  most  apt  to  lament ;  so  little  are  we  able  to  make  it 
indifferent  when  a  thing  happens,  though  we  know  it  must  hap- 
pen. Thus  we  groan  under  life,  and  bewail  those  who  are  re- 
lieved from  it.  Every  object  that  returns  to  our  imagination 
raises  different  passions,  according  to  the  circumstance  of  their 
departure.  Who  can  have  lived  in  an  army,  and  in  a  serious 
hour  reflect  upon  the  many  gay  and  agreeable  men  that  might 
long  have  flourished  in  the  arts  of  peace,  and  not  join  with  the 
imprecations  of  the  fatherless  and  widow  on  the  tyrant  to  whose 
ambition  they  fell  sacrifices?  But  gallant  men,  who  are  cut 
off  by  the  sword,  move  rather  our  veneration  than  our  pity; 
and  we  gather  relief  enough  from  their  own  contempt  of  death, 
to  make  that  no  evil,  which  was  approached  with  so  much  cheer- 
fulness, and  attended  with  so  much  honor.  But  when  we  turn 
our  thoughts  from  the  great  parts  of  life  on  such  occasions,  and 
instead  of  lamenting  those  who  stood  ready  to  give  death  to 
those  from  whom  they  had  the  fortune  to  receive  it ;  I  say,  when 
we  let  our  thoughts  wander  from  such  noble  objects,  and  con- 
sider the  havoc  which  is  made  among  the  tender  and  the  inno- 
cent, pity  enters  with  an  unmixed  softness,  and  possesses  all  our 
souls  at  once. 

Here  (were  there  words  to  express  such  sentiments  with 
proper  tenderness)  I  should  record  the  beauty,  innocence,  and 
untimely  death  of  the  first  object  my  eyes  ever  beheld  with  love. 
The  beauteous  virgin !  how  ignorantly  did  she  charm,  how 
carelessly  excel !     O  Death !  thou  hast  right  to  the  bold,  to  the 


i8S  STEELE 

ambitious,  to  the  high,  and  to  the  haughty ;  but  why  this  cruelty 
to  the  humble,  to  the  meek,  to  the  undiscerning,  to  the  thought- 
less? Nor  age,  nor  business,  nor  distress  can  erase  the  dear 
image  from  my  imagination.  In  the  same  week,  I  saw  her 
dressed  for  a  ball,  and  in  a  shroud.  How  ill  did  the  habit  of 
death  become  the  pretty  trifler!  I  still  behold  the  smiling 
earth A  large  train  of  disasters  were  coming  on  to  my  mem- 
ory, when  my  servant  knocked  at  my  closet-door,  and  inter- 
rupted me  with  a  letter,  attended  with  a  hamper  of  wine,  of  the 
same  sort  with  that  which  is  to  be  put  to  sale  on  Thursday  next 
at  Garraway's  coffee-house."  Upon  the  receipt  of  it  I  sent  for 
three  of  my  friends.  We  are  so  intimate  that  we  can  be  com- 
pany in  whatever  state  of  mind  we  meet,  and  can  entertain  each 
other  without  expecting  always  to  rejoice.  The  wine  we  found 
to  be  generous  and  warming,  but  with  such  a  heat  as  moved  us 
rather  to  be  cheerful  than  frolicsome.  It  revived  the  spirits, 
without  firing  the  blood.  We  commended  it  until  two  of  the 
clock  this  morning ;  and  having  to-day  met  a  little  before  din- 
ner, we  found  that,  though  we  drank  two  bottles  a  man,  we  had 
much  more  reason  to  recollect  than  forget  what  had  passed  the 
night  before. 

2  A   noted   coffee-house    in    Change-al-       by   Thomas  Garraway  who  was  the  first 
ley,  Cornhill.    It  was  opened  about  1660       to  sell  tea. 


THE  SPECTATOR  CLUB 

Ast  alii  sex 
Et  plures  uno  conclamant  ore. — Juvenal,  "  Satires,"  vii.  166. 

Six  more  at  least  join  their  consenting  voice. 

THE  first  of  our  society  is  a  gentleman  of  Worcestershire, 
of  an  ancient  descent,  a  baronet,  his  name  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley.^  His  great-grandfather  was  inventor  of  that 
famous  country-dance  which  is  called  after  him.  All  who  know 
that  shire  are  very  well  acquainted  with  the  parts  and  merits  of 
Sir  Roger.  He  is  a  gentleman  that  is  very  singular  in  his  be- 
havior, but  his  singularities  proceed  from  his  good  sense,  and 
are  contradictions  to  the  manners  of  the  world,  only  as  he  thinks 
the  world  is  in  the  wrong.  However,  this  humor  creates  him 
no  enemies,  for  he  does  nothing  with  sourness  or  obstinacy; 
and  his  being  unconfined  to  modes  and  forms  makes  him  but 
the  readier  and  more  capable  to  please  and  oblige  all  who  know 
him.  When  he  is  in  town  he  lives  in  Soho  Square.  It  is  said 
he  keeps  himself  a  bachelor  by  reason  he  was  crossed  in  love  by 
a  perverse  beautiful  widow  of  the  next  county  to  him.  Before 
this  disappointment.  Sir  Roger  was  what  you  call  a  fine  gentle- 
man,^ had  often  supped  with  my  Lord  Rochester^  and  Sir  George 
Etherege,*  fought  a  duel  upon  his  first  coming  to  town,  and 
kicked  bully  Dawson  ^  in  a  public  coffee-house  for  calling  him 

1  The  tune  and  dance  are  said  to  have  above.  His  plays  are  of  little  value, 
been  named  after  a  Yorkshire  knight,  but  one  of  them,  "  The  Comical  Re- 
Roger  Calverley,  who  lived  in  the  reign  venge  "  (1664),  has  the  distinction  of 
of  Richard  I  (Chappell's  "  Music  of  the  having  founded  the  English  Comedy  of 
Olden  Time  ")•  Manners. 

2  This  describes  those  whom  Steele  ^  A  tavern  swashbuckler,  who  is  rep- 
calls  "  ambitious  young  men,  every  resented  in  Brown's  "  Letters  from  the 
night  employed  in  roasting  Porters,  Living  to  the  Dead  "  as  thus  challeng- 
smoaking  Coblers,  knocking  down  ing  a  rival  bully: — "  If  ever  you  intend 
Watchmen,  overturning  Constables,  to  be  my  Rival  in  Glory,  you  must  fight 
etc."   ("  Tatler,"  77.)  a   Bailiff  once  a   Day,   Stand   Kick   and 

'  John     Wilmot,     Earl    of     Rochester  Cuff  once  a  Week,  Challenge  some  Cow- 

(1647-1680),     a     poet     of     some     ability.  ard  or  Other  once  a  Month,  Bilk  your 

Rochester    and    Sedley    anticipated    the  Lodgings  once  a  Quarter,  and  Cheat  a 

Mohocks   of    Queen   Anne's   reign,    and  Taylor    once    a    Year.     Never    till    then 

were  notorious  even  in  the  Restoration  will  the  fame  of  W — n  (Wharton?)  ring 

age.  like  Dawson's  in  every  coffee-house,  and 

♦  This  dramatist  (1634-1694)  closely  re-  be  the  merry  subject  of  every  Taveni 

sembled    the    two    writers    mentioned  Tittle-Tattle." 


190 


STEELE 


youngster.  But  being  ill-used  by  the  above-mentioned  widow, 
he  was  very  serious  for  a  year  and  a  half ;  and  though,  his  tem- 
per being  naturally  jovial,  he  at  last  got  over  it,  he  grew  careless 
of  himself  and  never  dressed  afterwards.  He  continues  to  wear 
a  coat  and  doublet  of  the  same  cut  that  were  in  fashion  at  the 
time  of  his  repulse,  which,  in  his  merry  humors,  he  tells  us,  has 
been  in  and  out  twelve  times  since  he  first  wore  it.  It  is  said 
Sir  Roger  grew  humble  in  his  desires  after  he  had  forgot  his 
cruel  beauty,  insomuch  that  it  is  reported  he  has  frequently 
offended  with  beggars  and  gypsies ;  but  this  is  looked  upon,  by 
his  friends,  rather  as  matter  of  raillery  than  truth.  He  is  now 
in  his  fifty-sixth  year,  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty ;  keeps  a  good 
house  both  in  town  and  country ;  a  great  lover  of  mankind ;  but 
there  is  such  a  mirthful  cast  in  his  behavior,  that  he  is  rather 
beloved  than  esteemed.^  His  tenants  grow  rich,  his  servants 
look  satisfied,  all  the  young  women  profess  love  to  him,  and  the 
young  men  are  glad  of  his  company.  When  he  comes  into  a 
house,  he  calls  the  servants  by  their  names,  and  talks  all  the  way 
upstairs  to  a  visit.  I  must  not  omit  that  Sir  Roger  is  a  justice 
of  the  quorum ;  that  he  fills  the  chair  at  a  quarter-session  with 
great  abilities,  and  three  months  ago  gained  universal  applause, 
by  explaining  a  passage  in  the  Game  Act. 

The  gentleman  next  in  esteem  and  authority  among  us  is 
another  bachelor,  who  is  a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple,  a  man 
of  great  probity,  wit,  and  understanding;  but  he  has  chosen 
his  place  of  residence  rather  to  obey  the  direction  of  an  old 
humorsome  father  than  in  pursuit  of  his  own  inclinations.  He 
was  placed  there  to  study  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  is  the  most 
learned  of  any  of  the  house  in  those  of  the  stage.  Aristotle  and 
Longinus  are  much  better  understood  by  him  than  Littleton  or 

*  The  Coverley  papers  properly  aiming  a  left-handed  blow  at  Tory 
amount  to  thirty-one  m  number,  of  squiredom.  It  is  only  hero-worship 
which  Addison  wrote  sixteen,  Steele  that  could  make  a  critic  see  in  Addi- 
EjEven,  Budgell  three,  and  Tickell  one.  son's  picture  nothing  but  "a  sweet 
(No.  410,  signed  T,  has  been  ascribed  image  of  simplicity  and  goodness  "  (Ar- 
to  Steele,  but  internal  evidence  favors  nold's  "  Spectator  ").  Nor  is  it  quite 
its  assignment  to  Tickell.)  The  natural  just  to  say,  as  Mr.  Gosse  does,  that  Sir 
outcome  of  this  joint-authorship  is  the  Koger  is  the  peculiar  property  of  Ad- 
presence  of  some  incongruities  in  the  dison."  This  is  merely  to  re-echo  what 
sketch.  To  mention  but  one  example,  the  Mr.  Forster  truly  called  "  the  braying 
simple  knight  who  makes  guileless  com-  of  Hurd."  Some  of  the  finest  touches 
ments  on  the  Tombs  (Addison's  "  Spec-  in  the  picture  are  entirely  due  to  Steele, 
tator,"  329)  could  never  have  been  such  and  a  very  competent  critic,  after  a  sub- 
a  beau  in  his  youth  as  to  have  supped  tie  analysis  of  the  character,  arrived  at 
with  Etheregc  and  Rochester  (Steele,  the  conclusion  that  "  all  that  is  amiable 
"  Spectator,"  2).  It  can  hardly  be  in  the  conception  belongs  to  Steele 
doubted  that  Addison  indulged  in  some  (Minto's  "  Manual  of  English  Prose 
irony  at  the  knight's  expense,   thereby  Literature,"  p.  457). 


THE   SPECTATOR   CLUB  191 

Coke.  The  father  sends  up  every  post  questions  relating  to 
marriage-articles,  leases,  and  tenures,  in  the  neighborhood ;  all 
which  questions  he  agrees  with  an  attorney  to  answer  and  take 
care  of  in  the  lump.  He  is  studying  the  passions  themselves, 
when  he  should  be  inquiring  into  the  debates  among  men  which 
arise  from  them.  He  knows  the  argument  of  each  of  the  ora- 
tions of  Demosthenes  and  Tully,  but  not  one  case  in  the  reports 
of  our  own  courts.  No  one  ever  took  him  for  a  fool ;  but  none, 
except  his  intimate  friends,  know  he  has  a  great  deal  of  wit. 
This  turn  makes  him  at  once  both  disinterested  and  agreeable. 
As  few  of  his  thoughts  are  drawn  from  business,  they  are  most 
of  them  fit  for  conversation.  His  taste  for  books  is  a  little  too 
just  for  the  age  he  lives  in;  he  has  read  all,  but  approves  of 
very  few.  His  familiarity  with  the  customs,  manners,  actions, 
and  writings  of  the  ancients,  makes  him  a  very  delicate  observer 
of  what  occurs  to  him  in  the  present  world.  He  is  an  excellent 
critic,  and  the  time  of  the  play  is  his  hour  of  business ;  exactly 
at  five  he  passes  through  New-Inn,  crosses  through  Russell- 
court,  and  takes  a  turn  at  Will's  till  the  play  begins ;  he  has  his 
shoes  rubbed  and  his  periwig  powdered  at  the  barber's  as  you 
go  into  the  Rose.  It  is  for  the  good  of  the  audience  when  he  is 
at  the  play,  for  the  actors  have  an  ambition  to  please  him. 

The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  a 
merchant  of  great  eminence  in  the  city  of  London ;  a  person  of 
indefatigable  industry,  strong  reason,  and  great  experience. 
His  notions  of  trade  are  noble  and  generous,  and  (as  every  rich 
man  has  usually  some  sly  way  of  jesting,  which  would  make  no 
great  figure  were  he  not  a  rich  man)  he  calls  the  sea  the  British 
Common.  He  is  acquainted  with  commerce  in  all  its  parts,  and 
will  tell  you  that  it  is  a  stupid  and  barbarous  way  to  extend 
dominion  by  arms ;  for  true  power  is  to  be  got  by  arts  and  in- 
dustry. He  will  often  argue  that,  if  this  part  of  our  trade  were 
well  cultivated,  we  should  gain  from  one  nation;  and  if  an- 
other, from  another.  I  have  heard  him  prove  that  diligence 
makes  more  lasting  acquisitions  than  valor,  and  that  sloth  has 
ruined  more  nations  than  the  sword.  He  abounds  in  several 
frugal  maxims,  amongst  which  the  greatest  favorite  is,  "  A 
penny  saved  is  a  penny  got."  A  general  trader  of  good  sense 
is  pleasanter  company  than  a  general  scholar ;  and  Sir  Andrew 
having  a  natural  unaffected  eloquence,  the  perspicuity  of  his 


192  STEELE 

discourse  gives  the  same  pleasure  that  wit  would  in  another 
man.  He  has  made  his  fortune  himself;  and  says  that  Eng- 
land may  be  richer  than  other  kingdoms  by  as  plain  methods  as 
he  himself  is  richer  than  other  men ;  though  at  the  same  time 
I  can  say  this  of  him,  that  there  is  not  a  point  in  the  compass 
but  blows  home  a  ship  in  which  he  is  an  owner. 

Next  to  Sir  Andrew  in  the  clubroom  sits  Captain  Sentry,  a 
gentleman  of  great  courage,  good  understanding,  but  invincible 
modesty.  He  is  one  of  those  that  deserve  very  well,  but  are 
very  awkward  at  putting  their  talents  within  the  observation  of 
such  as  should  take  notice  of  them.  He  was  some  years  a  cap- 
tain, and  behaved  himself  with  great  gallantry  in  several  en- 
gagements and  at  several  sieges ;  but  having  a  small  estate  of 
his  own,  and  being  next  heir  to  Sir  Roger,  he  has  quitted  a  way 
of  life  in  which  no  man  can  rise  suitably  to  his  merit,  who  is  not 
something  of  a  courtier  as  well  as  a  soldier.  I  have  heard  him 
often  lament  that,  in  a  profession  where  merit  is  placed  in  so 
conspicuous  a  view,  impudence  should  get  the  better  of  mod- 
esty. When  he  has  talked  to  this  purpose,  I  never  heard  him 
make  a  sour  expression,  but  frankly  confess  that  he  left  the 
world,  because  he  was  not  fit  for  it.  A  strict  honesty  and  an 
even  regular  behavior  are  in  themselves  obstacles  to  him  that 
must  press  through  crowds,  who  endeavor  at  the  same  end  with 
himself,  the  favor  of  a  commander.  He  will,  however,  in  his 
way  of  talk  excuse  generals  for  not  disposing  according  to  men's 
dessert,  or  inquiring  into  it;  for,  says  he,  that  great  man  who 
has  a  mind  to  help  me  has  as  many  to  break  through  to  come 
to  me  as  I  have  to  come  at  him :  therefore  he  will  conclude  that 
the  man  who  would  make  a  figure,  especially  in  a  military  way, 
must  get  over  all  false  modesty,  and  assist  his  patron  against 
the  importunity  of  other  pretenders,  by  a  proper  assurance  in 
his  own  vindication.  He  says  it  is  a  civil  cowardice  to  be  back- 
ward in  asserting  what  you  ought  to  expect,  as  it  is  a  military 
fear  to  be  slow  in  attacking  when  it  is  your  duty.  With  this 
candor  does  the  gentleman  speak  of  himself  and  others.  The 
same  frankness  runs  through  all  his  conversation.  The  mili- 
tary part  of  his  life  has  furnished  him  with  many  adventures,  in 
the  relation  of  which  he  is  very  agreeable  to  the  company ;  for 
he  is  never  overbearing,  though  accustomed  to  command  men 


THE   SPECTATOR  CLUB  193 

in  the  utmost  degree  below  him ;  nor  ever  too  obsequious,  from 
an  habit  of  obeying  men  highly  above  him. 

But  that  our  society  may  not  appear  a  set  of  humorists,  un- 
acquainted with  the  gallantries  and  pleasures  of  the  age,  we 
have  amongst  us  the  gallant  Will  Honeycomb,  a  gentleman 
who,  according  to  his  years,  should  be  in  the  decline  of  his  life ; 
but  having  ever  been  very  careful  of  his  person,  and  always  had 
a  very  easy  fortune,  time  has  made  but  a  very  little  impression 
either  by  wrinkles  on  his  forehead,  or  traces  on  his  brain.  His 
person  is  well  turned,  and  of  a  good  height.  He  is  very  ready 
at  that  sort  of  discourse  with  which  men  usually  entertain  wom- 
en. He  has  all  his  life  dressed  very  well,  and  remembers  habits 
as  others  do  men.  He  can  smile  when  one  speaks  to  him,  and 
laughs  easily.  He  knows  the  history  of  every  mode,  and  can 
inform  you  from  which  of  the  French  king's  wenches  our 
wives  and  daughters  had  this  manner  of  curling  their  hair, 
that  way  of  placing  their  hoods ;  whose  frailty  was  covered  by 
such  a  sort  of  a  petticoat,  and  whose  vanity  to  show  her  foot 
made  that  part  of  the  dress  so  short  in  such  a  year.  In  a  word, 
all  his  conversation  and  knowledge  have  been  in  the  female 
world.  As  other  men  of  his  age  will  take  notice  'to  you  what 
such  a  minister  said  upon  such  and  such  an  occasion,  he  will 
tell  you  when  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  danced  at  court,  such  a 
woman  was  then  smitten,  another  was  taken  with  him  at  the 
head  of  his  troop  in  the  park.  In  all  these  important  relations, 
he  has  ever  about  the  same  time  received  a  kind  glance,  or  a 
blow  of  a  fan  from  some  celebrated  beauty,  mother  of  the  pres- 
ent Lord  Such-a-one.  If  you  speak  of  a  young  commoner  that 
said  a  lively  thing  in  the  House,  he  starts  up,  "  He  has  good 
blood  in  his  veins ;  Tom  Mirable  begot  him ;  the  rogue  cheated 
me  in  that  affair;  that  young  fellow's  mother  used  me  more 
like  a  dog  than  any  woman  I  ever  made  advances  to."  This 
way  of  talking  of  his  very  much  enlivens  the  conversation  among 
us  of  a  more  sedate  turn,  and  I  find  there  is  not  one  of  the  com- 
pany, but  myself,  who  rarely  speak  at  all,  but  speaks  of  him  as 
of  that  sort  of  a  man  who  is  usually  called  a  well-bred  fine  gen- 
tleman. To  conclude  his  character,  where  women  are  not  con- 
cerned, he  is  an  honest  worthy  man. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  I  am  to  account  him,  whom  I  am  next 


194 


STEELE 


to  speak  of,  as  one  of  our  company ;  for  he  visits  us  but  seldom, 
but  when  he  does,  it  adds  to  every  man  else  a  new  enjoyment 
of  himself.  He  is  a  clergyman,  a  very  philosophic  man,  of  gen- 
eral learning,  great  sanctity  of  life,  and  the  most  exact  good 
breeding.  He  has  the  misfortune  to  be  of  a  very  weak  consti- 
tution, and  consequently  cannot  accept  of  such  cares  and  busi- 
ness as  preferments  in  his  function  would  oblige  him  to ;  he  is 
therefore  among  divines  what  a  chamber-counsellor  is  among 
lawyers.  The  probity  of  his  mind,  and  the  integrity  of  his  life, 
create  him  followers,  as  being  eloquent  or  loud  advances  others. 
He  seldom  introduces  the  subject  he  speaks  upon;  but  we  are 
so  far  gone  in  years  that  he  observes,  when  he  is  among  us,  an 
earnestness  to  have  him  fall  on  some  divine  topic,  which  he  al- 
ways treats  with  much  authority,  as  one  who  has  no  interest  in 
this  world,  as  one  who  is  hastening  to  the  object  of  all  his  wishes, 
and  conceives  hope  from  his  decays  and  infirmities.  These  are 
my  ordinary  companions. 


THE   UGLY  CLUB 

Tetrum  ante  omnia  vultum. — Juvenal,  "  Satires,"  x.  191. 

A  visage  rough, 
Deform'd,  unfeatur'd. — Dryden. 

SINCE  our  persons  are  not  of  our  own  making,  when  they 
are  such  as  appear  defective  or  uncomely,  it  is,  methinks, 
an  honest  and  laudable  fortitude  to  dare  to  be  ugly ;  at 
least  to  keep  ourselves  from  being  abashed  with  a  consciousness 
of  imperfections  which  we  cannot  help,  and  in  which  there  is  no 
guilt.  I  would  not  defend  a  haggard  beau  for  passing  away 
much  time  at  a  glass,  and  giving  softness  and  languishing 
graces  to  deformity :  all  I  intend  is,  that  we  ought  to  be  con- 
tented with  our  countenance  and  shape,  so  far  as  never  to  give 
ourselves  an  uneasy  reflection  on  that  subject.  It  is  to  the 
ordinary  people,  who  are  not  accustomed  to  make  very  proper 
remarks  on  any  occasion,  matter  of  great  jest  if  a  man  enters 
with  a  prominent  pair  of  shoulders  into  an  assembly,  or  is  dis- 
tinguished by  an  expansion  of  mouth,  or  obliquity  of  aspect. 
It  is  happy  for  a  man  that  has  any  of  these  oddnesses  about  him, 
if  he  can  be  as  merry  upon  himself  as  others  are  apt  to  be  upon 
that  occasion.  When  he  can  possess  himself  with  such  a  cheer- 
fulness, women  and  children,  who  are  at  first  frightened  at  him, 
will  afterwards  be  as  much  pleased  with  him.  As  it  is  barbar- 
ous in  others  to  rally  him  for  natural  defects,  it  is  extremely 
agreeable  when  he  can  jest  upon  himself  for  them. 

Madame  Maintenon's  first  husband  ^  was  a  hero  in  this  kind, 
and  has  drawn  many  pleasantries  from  the  irregularity  of  his 
shape,  which  he  describes  as  very  much  resembling  the  letter 
Z.  He  diverts  himself  likewise  by  representing  to  his  reader 
the  make  of  an  engine  and  pulley,  with  which  he  used  to  take  oflf 
his  hat.  When  there  happens  to  be  anything  ridiculous  in  a 
visage,  and  the  owner  of  it  thinks  it  an  aspect  of  dignity,  he  must 

^  Scarron. 
195 


jg6  STEELE 

be  of  very  great  quality  to  be  exempt  from  raillery.  The  best 
expedient,  therefore,  is  to  be  pleasant  upon  himself.  Prince 
Harry  and  Falstafif,  in  Shakespeare,  have  carried  the  ridicule 
upon  fat  and  lean  as  far  as  it  will  go.  Falstaff  is  humorously 
called  woolsack,  bedpresser,  and  hill  of  flesh ;  Harry,  a  starvel- 
ing, an  elfskin,  a  sheath,  a  bowcase,  and  a  tuck.  There  is,  in 
several  incidents  of  the  conversation  between  them,  the  jest  still 
kept  up  upon  the  person.  Great  tenderness  and  sensibility  in 
this  point  is  one  of  the  greatest  weaknesses  of  self-love.  For  my 
own  part,  I  am  a  little  unhappy  in  the  mould  of  my  face,  which 
is  not  quite  so  long  as  it  is  broad.  Whether  this  might  not 
partly  arise  from  my  opening  my  mouth  much  seldomer  than 
other  people,  and  by  consequence  not  so  much  lengthening  the 
fibres  of  my  visage,  I  am  not  at  leisure  to  determine.  However 
it  be,  I  have  been  often  put  out  of  countenance  by  the  shortness 
of  my  face,'  and  was  formerly  at  great  pains  in  concealing  it  by 
wearing  a  periwig  with  a  high  fore-top,  and  letting  my  beard 
grow.  But  now  I  have  thoroughly  got  over  this  delicacy,  and 
could  be  contented  with  a  much  shorter,  provided  it  might  qual- 
ify me  for  a  member  of  the  merry  club,  which  the  following  let- 
ter gives  me  an  account  of.  I  have  received  it  from  Oxford, 
and  as  it  abounds  with  the  spirit  of  mirth  and  good  humor, 
which  is  natural  to  that  place,  I  shall  set  it  down  word  for  word 
as  it  came  to  me. 

*'  Most  Profound  Sir  : 

"  Having  been  very  well  entertained,  in  the  last  of  your 
speculations  that  I  have  yet  seen,  by  your  specimen  upon  clubs, 
which  I  therefore  hope  you  will  continue,  I  shall  take  the  lib- 
erty to  furnish  you  with  a  brief  account  of  such  a  one  as,  per- 
haps, you  have  not  seen  in  all  your  travels,  unless  it  was  your 
fortune  to  touch  upon  some  of  the  woody  parts  of  the  African 
continent,  in  your  voyage  to  or  from  Grand  Cairo.  There  have 
arose  in  this  university  (long  since  you  left  us  without  saying 
anything)  several  of  these  inferior  hebdomadal  societies,  as  the 
Punning  Club,  the  Witty  Club,  and,  amongst  the  rest,  the 
Handsome  Club ;  as  a  burlesque  upon  which,  a  certain  merry 
species  that  seem  to  have  come  into  the  world  in  masquerade, 

*  This  was  made  use  of  by  the  savage  picture  of  somebody  over  a  farmer's 
John  Dennis  in  his  attack  on  SteeJe,  chimney."  Steele  vanquished  his  surly 
who   had,   he    said,    "  a   shape   like   the       critic  with  the  suavest  good-humor. 


THE   UGLY   CLUB  ^gj 

for  some  years  last  past  have  associated  themselves  together, 
and  assumed  the  name  of  the  Ugly  Club.  This  ill-favored  fra- 
ternity consists  of  a  president  and  twelve  fellows ;  the  choice 
of  which  is  not  confined  by  patent  to  any  particular  foundation 
(as  St.  John's  men  would  have  the  world  believe,  and  have  there- 
fore erected  a  separate  society  within  themselves),  but  liberty  is 
left  to  elect  from  any  school  in  Great  Britain,  provided  the  can- 
didates be  within  the  rules  of  the  club,  as  set  forth  in  a  table 
entitled,  '  The  Act  of  Deformity,'  a  clause  or  two  of  which  I 
shall  transmit  to  you. 

"  '  I.  That  no  person  whatsoever  shall  be  admitted  without  a 
visible  queerity  in  his  aspect,  or  peculiar  cast  of  countenance; 
of  which  the  president  and  officers  for  the  time  being  are  to 
determine,  and  the  president  to  have  the  casting  voice. 

"  '  II.  That  a  singular  regard  be  had  upon  examination  to 
the  gibbosity  of  the  gentlemen  that  offer  themselves  as  found- 
er's kinsmen ;  or  to  the  obliquity  of  their  figure,  in  what  sort 
soever. 

"  '  III.  That  if  the  quantity  of  any  man's  nose  be  eminently 
miscalculated,  whether  as  to  length  or  breadth,  he  shall  have  a 
just  pretence  to  be  elected. 

"  '  Lastly,  That  if  there  shall  be  two  or  more  competitors  for 
the  same  vacancy,  ceteris  paribus^  he  that  has  the  thickest  skin 
to  have  the  preference.' 

"  Every  fresh  member,  upon  his  first  night,  is  to  entertain  the 
company  with  a  dish  of  codfish,  and  a  speech  in  praise  of  ^sop, 
whose  portraiture  they  have  in  full  proportion,  or  rather  dis- 
proportion, over  the  chimney ;  and  their  design  is,  as  soon  as 
their  funds  are  sufficient,  to  purchase  the  heads  of  Thersites, 
Duns  Scotus,^  Scarron,  Hudibras,*  and  the  old  gentleman  in 
Oldham,^  with  all  the  celebrated  ill  faces  of  antiquity,  as  furni- 
ture for  the  clubroom. 

"  As  they  have  always  been  professed  admirers  of  the  other 
sex,  so  they  unanimously  declare  that  they  will  give  all  pos- 
sible encouragement  to  such  as  will  take  the  benefit  of  the  stat- 
ute, though  none  yet  have  appeared  to  do  it. 

»  The   disciples   of   Aquinas   maligned       his  beard,  which  was  a  mixture  of  whcjr^ 
the  personal  appearance  as  well  as  the       orange,  and  gray. 
doctrines  of  Duns  Scotus.  ^  Ignatius  Loyola  as  described  in  the 

*  Admitted  to  the  club  for  the  sake  of       third  of  the  "  Satires  upon  the  Jesuits  * 

by  John  Oldham,  1679. 


198  STEELE 

"  The  worthy  president,  who  is  their  most  devoted  champion, 
has  lately  shown  me  two  copies  of  verses,  composed  by  a  gen- 
tleman of  his  society ;  the  first,  a  congratulatory  ode,  inscribed 
to  Mrs.  Touchwood,  upon  the  loss  of  her  two  fore-teeth ;  the 
other,  a  panegyric  upon  Mrs.  Andiron's  left  shoulder.  Mrs. 
Vizard,  he  says,  since  the  small-pox,  has  grown  tolerably  ugly, 
and  a  top  toast  in  the  club ;  but  I  never  heard  him  so  lavish  of 
his  fine  things  as  upon  old  Nell  Trot,  who  constantly  officiates 
at  their  table ;  her  he  even  adores  and  extols  as  the  very  coun- 
terpart of  Mother  Shipton  ;  in  short,  Nell,  says  he,  is  one  of  the 
extraordinary  works  of  nature ;  but  as  for  complexion,  shape, 
and  features,  so  valued  by  others,  they  are  all  mere  outside  and 
symmetry,  which  is  his  aversion.  Give  me  leave  to  add  that  the 
president  is  a  facetious,  pleasant  gentleman,  and  never  more  so 
than  when  he  has  got  (as  he  calls  them)  his  dear  mummers  about 
him ;  and  he  often  protests  it  does  him  good  to  meet  a  fellow 
with  a  right  genuine  grimace  in  his  air  (which  is  so  agreeable  in 
the  generality  of  the  French  nation) ;  and,  as  an  instance  of  his 
sincerity  in  this  particular,  he  gave  me  a  sight  of  a  list  in  his 
pocketbook  of  all  this  class,  who  for  these  five  years  have  fallen 
under  his  observation,  with  himself  at  the  head  of  them,  and  in 
the  rear  (as  one  of  a  promising  and  improving  aspect),  Sir, 
"  Your  obliged  and  humble  servant, 

"  Alexander  Carbuncle. 

"  Oxford,  March  12,  1710." 


SIR  ROGER  AND  THE  WIDOW 

Harent  infixi  pectore  vultus, — Virgil,  "  -lEneid,"  iv.  4. 
Her  looks  were  deep  imprinted  in  his  heart. 

IN  my  first  description  of  the  company  in  which  I  pass  most 
of  my  time,  it  may  be  remembered  that  I  mentioned  a 
great  affliction  which  my  friend  Sir  Roger  had  met  with 
Jn  his  youth,  which  was  no  less  than  a  disappointment  in  love. 
It  happened  this  evening  that  we  fell  into  a  very  pleasing  walk 
at  a  distance  from  his  house.  As  soon  as  we  came  into  it,  "  It 
is,"  quoth  the  good  old  man,  looking  round  him  with  a  smile, 
"  very  hard  that  any  part  of  my  land  should  be  settled  upon 
one  who  has  used  me  so  ill  as  the  perverse  widow  ^  did ;  and 
yet  I  am  sure  I  could  not  see  a  sprig  of  any  bough  of  this  whole 
walk  of  trees,  but  I  should  reflect  upon  her  and  her  severity. 
She  has  certainly  the  finest  hand  of  any  woman  in  the  world. 
You  are  to  know  this  was  the  place  wherein  I  used  to  muse 
upon  her;  and  by  that  custom  I  can  never  come  into  it,  but 
the  same  tender  sentiments  revive  in  my  mind  as  if  I  had  actu- 
ally walked  with  that  beautiful  creature  under  these  shades.  I 
have  been  fool  enough  to  carve  her  name  on  the  bark  of  several 
of  these  trees ;  so  unhappy  is  the  condition  of  men  in  love  to 
attempt  the  removing  of  their  passion  by  the  methods  which 
serve  only  to  imprint  it  deeper.  She  has  certainly  the  finest 
hand  of  any  woman  in  the  world." 

Here  followed  a  profound  silence ;  and  I  was  not  displeased 
to  observe  my  friend  falling  so  naturally  into  a  discourse,  which 
I  had  ever  before  taken  notice  he  industriously  avoided.  After 
a  very  long  pause,  he  entered  upon  an  account  of  this  great  cir- 
cumstance in  his  life,  with  an  air  which  I  thought  raised  my  idea 
of  him  above  what  I  had  ever  had  before ;  and  gave  me  the 
picture  of  that  cheerful  mind  of  his  before  it  received  that  stroke 

1  It  has  been  conjectured  that  the  i8i— was  Mrs.  Catherine  Bovcy,  to 
widow— and  also,  with  less  probability,  whom  Steele  dedicated  the  second  vol- 
the  sweetheart  alluded  to  in  "Tatler,"       ume  of  his  "  Lady's  Library." 

IQO 


200 


STEELE 


which  has  ever  since  affected  his  words  and  actions.    But  He 
went  on  as  follows : 

"  I  came  to  my  estate  in  my  twenty-second  year,  and  resolved 
to  follow  the  steps  of  the  most  worthy  of  my  ancestors  who 
have  inhabited  this  spot  of  earth  before  me,  in  all  the  methods 
of  hospitality  and  good  neighborhood,  for  the  sake  of  my  fame ; 
and  in  country  sports  and  recreations,  for  the  sake  of  my  health. 
In  my  twenty-third  year,  I  was  obliged  to  serve  as  Sheriff  of  my 
county ;  and  in  my  servants,  officers,  and  whole  equipage,  in- 
dulged the  pleasure  of  a  young  man  (who  did  not  think  ill  of 
his  own  person)  in  taking  that  public  occasion  of  showing  my 
figure  and  behavior  to  advantage.  You  may  easily  imagine 
to  yourself  what  appearance  I  made,  who  am  pretty  tall,  rode 
well,  and  was  very  well  dressed,  at  the  head  of  a  whole  county, 
with  music  before  me,  a  feather  in  my  hat,  and  my  horse  well 
bitted.  I  can  assure  you  I  was  not  a  little  pleased  with  the  kind 
looks  and  glances  I  had  from  all  the  balconies  and  windows  as 
I  rode  to  the  hall  where  the  assizes  were  held.  But  when  I 
came  there,  a  beautiful  creature,  in  a  widow's  habit,  sat  in 
court  to  hear  the  event  of  a  cause  concerning  her  dower.  This 
commanding  creature  (who  was  born  for  the  destruction  of  all 
who  beheld  her)  put  on  such  a  resignation  in  her  countenance, 
and  bore  the  whispers  of  all  around  the  court  with  such  a  pretty 
uneasiness,  I  warrant  you,  and  then  recovered  herself  from  one 
eye  to  another,  until  she  was  perfectly  confused  by  meeting 
something  so  wistful  in  all  she  encountered,  that  at  last,  with  a 
murrain  to  her,  she  cast  her  bewitching  eye  upon  me.  I  no 
sooner  met  it  but  I  bowed,  like  a  great  surprised  booby ;  and 
knowing  her  cause  to  be  the  first  which  came  on,  I  cried,  like  a 
captivated  calf  as  I  was,  '  Make  way  for  the  defendant's  wit- 
nesses.' This  sudden  partiality  made  all  the  county  see  the 
sheriff  also  was  become  a  slave  to  the  fine  widow.  During  the 
time  her  cause  was  upon  trial,  she  behaved  herself,  I  warrant 
you,  with  such  a  deep  attention  to  her  business,  took  opportuni- 
ties to  have  little  billets  handed  to  her  counsel,  then  would  be 
in  such  a  pretty  confusion,  occasioned,  you  must  know,  by  act- 
ing before  so  much  company,  that  not  only  I,  but  the  whole 
court,  was  prejudiced  in  her  favor ;  and  all  that  the  next  heir 
to  her  husband  had  to  urge  was  thought  so  groundless  and 
frivolous  that  when  it  came  to  her  counsel  to  reply,  there  was 


SIR  ROGER   AND   THE   WIDOW  201 

not  half  so  much  said  as  everyone  besides  in  the  court  thought 
he  could  have  urged  to  her  advantage.  You  must  understand, 
sir,  this  perverse  woman  is  one  of  those  unaccountable  creatures 
that  secretly  rejoice  in  the  admiration  of  men,  but  indulge  them- 
selves in  no  further  consequences.  Hence  it  is  that  she  has  ever 
had  a  train  of  admirers,  and  she  removes  from  her  slaves  in 
town  to  those  in  the  country  according  to  the  seasons  of  the 
year.  She  is  a  reading  lady,  and  far  gone  in  the  pleasures  of 
friendship.  She  is  always  accompanied  by  a  confidant  who  is 
witness  to  her  daily  protestations  against  our  sex,  and  conse- 
quently a  bar  to  her  first  steps  towards  love,  upon  the  strength 
of  her  own  maxims  and  declarations. 

"  However,  I  must  needs  say,  this  accomplished  mistress  of 
mine  has  distinguished  me  above  the  rest,  and  has  been  known 
to  declare  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  was  the  tamest  and  most  hu- 
mane of  all  the  brutes  in  the  country.  I  was  told  she  said  so  by 
one  who  thought  he  rallied  me ;  but  upon  the  strength  of  this 
slender  encouragement  of  being  thought  least  detestable,  I 
made  new  liveries,  new-paired  my  coach-horses,  sent  them  all 
to  town  to  be  bitted,  and  taught  to  throw  their  legs  well,  and 
move  all  together,  before  I  pretended  to  cross  the  country  and 
wait  upon  her.  As  soon  as  I  thought  my  retinue  suitable  to  the 
character  of  my  fortune  and  youth,  I  set  out  from  hence  to 
make  my  addresses.  The  particular  skill  of  this  lady  has  ever 
been  to  inflame  your  wishes,  and  yet  command  respect.  To 
make  her  mistress  of  this  art,  she  has  a  greater  share  of  knowl- 
edge, wit,  and  good  sense  than  is  usual  even  among  men  of 
merit.  Then  she  is  beautiful  beyond  the  race  of  women.  If  you 
will  not  let  her  go  on  with  a  certain  artifice  with  her  eyes,  and 
the  skill  of  beauty,  she  will  arm  herself  with  her  real  charms, 
and  strike  you  with  admiration  instead  of  desire.  It  is  certain 
that  if  you  were  to  behold  the  whole  woman,  there  is  that  dig- 
nity in  her  aspect,  that  composure  in  her  motion,  that  com- 
placency in  her  manner,  that  if  her  form  makes  you  hope,  her 
merit  makes  you  fear.  But  then  again  she  is  such  a  desperate 
scholar  that  no  country  gentleman  can  approach  her  without 
being  a  jest.  As  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  when  I  came  to  her 
house,  I  was  admitted  to  her  presence  with  great  civility  ;  at  the 
same  time  she  placed  herself  to  be  first  seen  by  me  in  such  an 
attitude  as  I  think  you  call  the  posture  of  a  picture,  that  she  dis- 


202  STEELE 

covered  new  charms,  and  I  at  last  came  towards  her  with  such 
an  awe  as  made  me  speechless.  This  she  no  sooner  observed 
but  she  made  her  advantage  of  it,  and  began  a  discourse  to  me 
concerning  love  and  honor,  as  they  both  are  followed  by  pre- 
tenders, and  the  real  votaries  to  them.  When  she  discussed 
these  points  in  a  discourse,  which  I  verily  believe  was  as  learned 
as  the  best  philosopher  in  Europe  could  possibly  make,  she 
asked  me  whether  she  was  so  happy  as  to  fall  in  with  my  senti- 
ments on  these  important  particulars.  Her  confidant  sat  by 
her,  and  upon  my  being  in  the  last  confusion  and  silence,  this 
malicious  aid  of  hers,  turning  to  her,  says,  '  I  am  very  glad  to 
observe  Sir  Roger  pauses  upon  this  subject,  and  seems  resolved 
to  deliver  all  his  sentiments  upon  the  matter  when  he  pleases 
to  speak.'  They  both  kept  their  countenances,  and  after  I  had 
sat  half  an  hour  meditating  how  to  behave  before  such  profound 
casuists,  I  rose  up  and  took  my  leave.  Chance  has  since  that 
time  thrown  me  very  often  in  her  way,  and  she  as  often  has  di- 
rected a  discourse  to  me  which  I  do  not  understand.  This  bar- 
barity has  kept  me  ever  at  a  distance  from  the  most  beautiful 
object  my  eyes  ever  beheld.  It  is  thus  also  she  deals  with  all 
mankind,  and  you  must  make  love  to  her,  as  you  would  conquer 
the  sphinx,  by  posing  her.  But  were  she  like  other  women, 
and  that  there  were  any  talking  to  her,  how  constant  must  the 
pleasure  of  that  man  be  who  would  converse  with  a  creature — 
But,  after  all,  you  may  be  sure  her  heart  is  fixed  on  some  one  or 
other ;  and  yet  I  have  been  credibly  informed — but  who  can 
believe  half  that  is  said? — after  she  had  done  speaking  to  me 
she  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom  and  adjusted  her  tucker.  Then 
she  cast  her  eyes  a  little  down  upon  my  beholding  her  too  ear- 
nestly. They  say  she  sings  excellently :  her  voice  in  her  ordinary 
speech  has  something  in  it  inexpressibly  sweet.  You  must 
know  I  dined  with  her  at  a  public  table  the  day  after  I  first  saw 
her,  and  she  helped  me  to  some  tansy  in  the  eye  of  all  the  gentle- 
men in  the  country.  She  has  certainly  the  finest  hand  of  any 
woman  in  the  world.  I  can  assure  you,  sir,  were  you  to  behold 
her  you  would  be  in  the  same  condition ;  for  as  her  speech  is 
music,  her  form  is  angelic.  But  I  find  I  grow  irregular  while  I 
am  talking  of  her ;  but  indeed  it  would  be  stupidity  to  be  un- 
concerned at  such  perfection.  Oh,  the  excellent  creature  !  she 
is  as  inimitable  to  all  women  as  she  is  inaccessible  to  all  men—"- 


SIR   ROGER   AND   THE   WIDOW  203 

I  found  my  friend  begin  to  rave,  and  insensibly  led  him 
towards  the  house  that  we  might  be  joined  by  some  other  com- 
pany ;  and  am  convinced  that  the  widow  is  the  secret  cause  of 
all  that  inconsistency  which  appears  in  some  parts  of  my  friend's 
discourse ;  though  he  has  so  much  command  of  himself  as  not 
directly  to  mention  her,  yet,  according  to  that  of  Martial,  which 
one  knows  not  how  to  render  into  English,  Dum  facet,  hanc 
loquitur;  I  shall  end  this  paper  with  that  whole  epigram, 
which  represents  with  much  humor  my  honest  friend's  condi- 
tion : — 

Quicquid  agit  Rufus,  nihil  est  nisi  Ncevia  Rufo, 

Si  gandct,si  Het,  si  tacet,  hanc  loquitur: 
Ccenat,  propinat,  poscit,  negat,  innuit,  una  est 

Ncsvia:  si  non  sit  Ncevia,  mutus  erit. 
Scriberet  hesterna  patri  cunt  luce  salutem, 

Ncevia  lux,  inquit,  Ncevia!  lumen,  ave. — "  Epigrams,"  i.  69. 

"  Let  Rufus  weep,  rejoice,  stand,  sit  or  walk, 
Still  he  can  nothing  but  of  Naevia  talk ; 
Let  him  eat,  drink,  ask  questions  or  dispute, 
Still  he  must  speak  of  Naevia,  or  be  mute. 
He  writ  to  his  father,  ending  with  this  line, 
I  am,  my  lovely  Naevia,  ever  thine." 


THE    CHARACTER    OF    NED   SOFTLY 


NICOLINI    AND    THE    LIONS 


FANS 


SIR    ROGER    AT    THE    ASSIZES 


THE    VISION    OF    MIRZA 


THE    ART    OF    GRINNING 


SIR    ROGER    AT    THE    ABBEY 


SIR    ROGER    AT    THE    PLAY 


THE    TORY    FOX-HUNTER 


BY 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 
1672 — 1719 

Joseph  Addison  was  born  at  Milston,  his  father's  rectory,  in  Wilt- 
shire, in  1672.  He  learned  the  rudiments  of  education  at  schools  in 
the  neighborhood  of  his  home,  and  was  then  sent  to  the  Charterhouse. 
At  fifteen  he  was  entered  at  Queen's  College,  Oxford,  but  he  had  not 
been  there  many  months  when  a  copy  of  Latin  verses,  which  attracted 
the  notice  of  Dr.  Lancaster,  gained  him  admittance  at  Magdalen  Col- 
lege. As  Demy  and  afterwards  as  Fellow  he  resided  for  ten  years  at 
Magdalen,  and  the  college  is  still  proud  of  his  name.  During  his 
residence  at  the  university  he  appears  to  have  concentrated  his  atten- 
tion on  the  study  of  the  Latin  poets,  and  to  have  had  some  thought  of 
devoting  himself  to  poetry;  his  position  as  Fellow  of  a  college,  /ich 
in  preferment,  would  naturally  have  led  him  to  the  Church  as  a  pro- 
fession, but  the  influence  of  the  Lord  Keeper  Somers  and  of  Montague, 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  together  with  a  pension  obtained  for 
him  through  Lord  Somers,  determined  his  choice  otherwise.  In  1699 
he  left  Oxford  and  remained  on  the  Continent  for  more  than  four 
years.  On  his  return  to  England,  at  the  end  of  1703,  Addison's  pros- 
pects of  employment  were  for  a  while  clouded  by  the  fall  of  his  friend 
Lord  Somers  and  rise  of  Godolphin  to  power  at  the  accession  of  Anne. 
But  this  exclusion  from  office  did  not  last  long,  and  in  1706  he  was 
made  Under  Secretary  and  employed  on  a  foreign  mission.  He  be- 
came afterwards  Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland — an  office  which  he  filled 
twice — Secretary  to  the  Lord  Justices,  and  finally,  in  1717,  Secretary 
of  State.  This  completes  the  tale  of  Addison's  public  career.  It  was 
like  his  private  life — unblemished  and  stainless  in  its  integrity.  He 
married,  in  1716,  the  Countess  of  Warwick,  and  died  in  1719,  having 
just  completed  his  forty-seventh  year. 

As  an  author,  Addison  has  left  poems,  among  which  was  the  "  Cam- 
paign," written  to  celebrate  Marlborough's  victory  at  Blenheim ;  plays, 
of  which  the  most  successful  was  "Cato;"  his  "Italian  Travels;" 
and  lastly,  the  immortal  papers  which  have  given  enduring  fame  to  the 
"  Tatler,"  "  Spectator,"  "  Guardian,"  and  one  or  two  other  short-lived 
periodicals.  Addison's  style  has  always  been  looked  upon  as  the  model 
of  classical  English.  "  His  prose,"  in  the  words  of  Dr.  Johnson,  "  is 
the  model  of  the  middle  style;  on  grave  subjects  not  formal,  on  light 
occasions  not  grovelling,  pure  without  scrupulosity,  and  exact  without 
apparent  elaboration ;  always  equable  and  always  easy,  it  was  apparently 
his  principal  endeavor  to  avoid  all  harshness  and  severity  of  diction." 
In  delicacy  of  wit,  fertility  of  imagination,  and  grace  of  expression, 
his  best  essays.  Lord  Macaulay  truly  says,  approach  near  to  absolute 
perfection.  Mr.  Thackeray  holds  Addison  to  have  been  "  one  of  the 
most  enviable  of  mankind.  A  life  prosperous  and  beautiful — a  calm 
death — an  immense  fame  and  affection  afterwards  for  his  happy  and 
spotless  name."  The  essays  selected  were  contributed  to  the  "  Spec- 
tator," "  Tatler,"  and  "  Freeholder,"  respectively. 


stob 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  NED  SOFTLY 

Idem  inHceto  est  iniicetior  rure, 

Simul  poemata  attigit;  neque  idem  unquam 

Mque  est  beatus,  ac  poema  cum  scribit: 

Tarn  gaudet  in  se,  tamque  se  ipse  miratur. 

Nimirum  idem  omnes  fallimur;  neque  est  quisquam 

Quem  non  in  aliqua  re  videre  Suffenum 

Possis.  — Catullus,  "  de  Suffeno,"  xx.  14. 

Suffenus  has  no  more  wit  than  a  mere  clown  when  he  attempts  to 
write  verses ;  and  yet  he  is  never  happier  than  when  he  is  scribbling :  so 
much  does  he  admire  himself  and  his  compositions.  And,  indeed,  this 
is  the  foible  of  every  one  of  us ;  for  there  is  no  man  living  who  is  not  a 
Sufifenus  in  one  thing  or  other. 

I  YESTERDAY  came  hither  about  two  hours  before  the 
company  generally  make  their  appearance,  with  a  design 
to  read  over  all  the  newspapers ;  but,  upon  my  sitting 
down,  I  was  accosted  by  Ned  Softly,  who  saw  me  from  a  corner 
in  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  I  found  he  had  been  writ- 
ing something.  "  Mr.  Bickerstaff,"  says  he,  "  I  observe  by  a 
late  paper  of  yours,  that  you  and  I  are  just  of  a  humor ;  for  you 
must  know,  of  all  impertinences,  there  is  nothing  which  I  so 
much  hate  as  news.  I  never  read  a  gazette  in  my  life ;  and 
never  trouble  my  head  about  our  armies,  whether  they  win  or 
lose,  or  in  what  part  of  the  world  they  lie  encamped."  Without 
giving  me  time  to  reply,  he  drew  a  paper  of  verses  out  of  his 
pocket,  telling  me,  "  that  he  had  something  .which  would  en- 
tertain me  more  agreeably  ;  and  that  he  would  desire  my  judg- 
ment upon  every  line,  for  that  we  had  time  enough  before  us 
until  the  company  came  in." 

Ned  Softly  is  a  very  pretty  poet,  and  a  great  admirer  of  easy 
lines.  Waller  is  his  favorite :  and  as  that  admirable  writer  has 
the  best  and  worst  verses  of  any  among  our  great  English  poets, 
Ned  Softly  has  got  all  the  bad  ones  without  book :  which  he 
repeats  upon  occasion,  to  show  his  reading,  and  garnish  his 

207 


2o8  ADDISON 

conversation.  Ned  is  indeed  a  true  English  reader,  incapable 
of  relishing  the  great  and  masterly  strokes  of  this  art ;  but  won- 
derfully pleased  with  the  little  Gothic  ornaments  of  epigram- 
matical  conceits,  turns,  points,  and  quibbles,  which  are  so  fre- 
quent in  the  most  admired  of  our  English  poets,  and  practised 
by  those  who  want  genius  and  strength  to  represent,  after  the 
manner  of  the  ancients,  simplicity  in  its  natural  beauty  and  per- 
fection. 

Finding  myself  unavoidably  engaged  in  such  a  conversation, 
I  was  resolved  to  tutn  my  pain  into  a  pleasure,  and  to  divert 
myself  as  well  as  I  could  with  so  very  odd  a  fellow.  "  You  must 
understand,"  says  Ned,  "  that  the  sonnet  I  am  going  to  read  to 
you  was  written  upon  a  lady,  who  showed  me  some  verses  of 
her  own  making,  and  is,  perhaps,  the  best  poet  of  our  age.  But 
you  shall  hear  it."    Upon  which  he  began  to  read  as  follows : 

"TO   MIRA,   ON   HER   INCOMPARABLE   POEMS. 

I 

"  When  dress'd  in  laural  wreaths  you  shine, 
And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes, 
You  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine, 
Or  Phoebus'  self  in  petticoats. 

II 

"  I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing, 

(Your  song  you  sing  with  so  much  art) 
Your  pen  was  pluck'd  from  Cupid's  wing; 
For,  ah  !  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart." 

"  Why,"  says  I,  "  this  is  a  little  nosegay  of  conceits,  a  very 
lump  of  salt :  every  verse  has  something  in  it  that  piques  ;  and 
then  the  dart  in  the  last  line  is  certainly  as  pretty  a  sting  in  the 
tail  of  an  epigram,  for  so  I  think  you  critics  call  it,  as  ever  en- 
tered into  the  thought  of  a  poet."  "  Dear  Mr.  Bickerstafif,"  says 
he,  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  "  everybody  knows  you  to  be  a 
judge  of  these  things ;  and  to  tell  you  truly,  I  read  over  Ros- 
common's translation  of  Horace's  *  Art  of  Poetry '  three  sev- 
eral times  before  I  sat  down  to  write  the  sonnet  which  I  have 
shown  you.  But  you  shall  hear  it  again,  and  pray  observe  every 
line  of  it ;  for  not  one  of  them  shall  pass  without  your  approba- 
tion— 

"  When  dress'd  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine. 


THE   CHARACTER   OF  NED   SOFTLY  209 

"  That  is,"  says  he,  "  when  you  have  your  garland  on ;  when 
you  are  writing  verses."  To  which  I  repHed,  "  I  know  your 
meaning ;  a  metaphor !  "    "  The  same,"  said  he,  and  went  on-^ 

"  And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes. 

**  Pray  observe  the  gliding  of  that  verse ;  there  is  scarce  a 
consonant  in  it ;  I  took  care  to  make  it  run  upon  liquids.  Give 
me  your  opinion  of  it."  "  Truly,"  said  I,  "  I  think  it  as  good  as 
the  former."  "  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  says  he, 
"  but  mind  the  next — 

"  You  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine. 

"  That  is,"  says  he,  "  you  seem  a  sister  of  the  muses ;  for,  if 
you  look  into  ancient  authors,  you  will  find  it  was  their  opinion 
that  there  were  nine  of  them."  "  I  remember  it  very  well,"  said 
I ;  "  but  pray  proceed." 

"  Or  Phoebus'  self  in  petticoats. 

"  Phoebus,"  says  he,  "  was  the  god  of  poetry.  These  little 
instances,  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  show  a  gentleman's  reading.  Then, 
to  take  off  from  the  air  of  learning,  which  Phoebus  and  the 
muses  had  given  to  this  first  stanza,  you  may  observe,  how  it 
falls  all  of  a  sudden  into  the  familiar, '  in  petticoats  ' ! 

"  Let  us  now,"  says  I,  "  enter  upon  the  second  stanza ;  I  find 
the  first  line  is  still  a  continuation  of  the  metaphor — 

"  I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing." 

"  It  is  very  right,"  says  he ;  "  but  pray  observe  the  turn  of 
words  in  those  two  lines.  I  was  a  whole  hour  in  adjusting  of 
them,  and  have  still  a  doubt  upon  me  whether  in  the  second 
line  it  should  be,  '  Your  song  you  sing ; '  or,  '  You  sing  your 
song.'    You  shall  hear  them  both — 

"  I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing, 
(Your  song  you  sing  with  so  much  art)  ; 

or, 

"  I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing, 
(You  sing  your  song  with  so  much  art)." 

"  Truly,"  said  I,  "  the  turn  is  so  natural  either  way,  that  yotl 

have  made  me  almost  giddy  with  it."    "  Dear  sir/'  said  he. 

10— Vol.  57 


aiO  ADDISON 

grasping  mc  by  the  hand,  "  you  have  a  great  deal  of  patience ; 
but  pray  what  do  you  think  of  the  next  verse — 

"  Your  pen  was  pluck'd  from  Cupid's  wing." 

**  Think !  "  says  I,  "  I  think  you  have  made  Cupid  look  like 
a  little  goose."  "  That  was  my  meaning,"  says  he,  "  I  think  the 
ridicule  is  well  enough  hit  off.  But  we  come  now  to  the  last, 
which  sums  up  the  whole  matter — 

"  For,  ah !  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

"  Pray  how  do  you  like  that  *  Ah ! '  doth  it  not  make  a  pretty 
figure  in  that  place  ?  '  Ah  ! ' — it  looks  as  if  I  felt  the  dart,  and 
cried  out  as  being  pricked  with  it — 

"  For,  ah !  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

"  My  friend,  Dick  Easy,"  continued  he,  "  assured  me  he 
would  rather  have  written  that  '  Ah ! '  than  to  have  been  the 
author  of  the  '  Mnoid.'  He  indeed  objected,  that  I  made  Mira's 
pen  like  a  quill  in  one  of  the  lines,  and  like  a  dart  in  the  other. 
But  as  to  that — "  "  Oh  !  as  to  that,"  says  I,  "  it  is  but  suppos- 
ing Cupid  to  be  like  a  porcupine,  and  his  quills  and  darts  will 
be  the  same  thing."  He  was  going  to  embrace  me  for  the  hint ; 
but  half  a  dozen  critics  coming  into  the  room,  whose  faces  he 
did  not  like,  he  conveyed  the  sonnet  into  his  pocket,  and  whis- 
pered me  in  the  ear,  "  he  would  show  it  me  again  as  soon  as  his 
man  had  written  it  over  fair." 


TMICOLINI    AND    THE    LIONS 

Die  mihi,  si  fueris  tu  leo,  qiialis  erisf — Mart. 
Were  you  a  lion,  how  would  you  behave  ? 

THERE  is  nothing  that  of  late  years  has  afforded  matter 
of  greater  amusement  to  the  town  than  Signor  Nico- 
lini's  ^  combat  with  a  Hon  in  the  Haymarket,  which  has 
been  very  often  exhibited  to  the  general  satisfaction  of  most 
of  the  nobility  and  gentry  in  the  kingdom  of  Great  Britain. 
Upon  the  first  rumor  of  his  intended  combat,  it  was  confidently 
affirmed,  and  is  still  believed,  by  many  in  both  galleries,  that 
there  would  be  a  tame  lion  sent  from  the  Tower  every  opera 
night  in  order  to  be  killed  by  Hydaspes.^  This  report,  though 
altogether  groundless,  so  universally  prevailed  in  the  upper 
regions  of  the  playhouse  that  some  of  the  most  refined  politi- 
cians in  those  parts  of  the  audience  gave  it  out  in  whisper  that 
the  lion  was  a  cousin-german  of  the  tiger  who  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  King  William's  days,  and  that  the  stage  would  be 
supplied  with  lions  at  the  public  expense  during  the  whole  ses- 
sion. Many  likewise  were  the  conjectures  of  the  treatment 
which  this  lion  was  to  meet  with  from  the  hands  of  Signor 
Nicolini ;  some  supposed  that  he  was  to  subdue  him  in  recita- 
tivo,  as  Orpheus  used  to  serve  the  wild  beasts  in  his  time,  and 
afterwards  to  knock  him  on  the  head ;  some  fancied  that  the 
lion  would  not  pretend  to  lay  his  paws  upon  the  hero,  by  reason 
of  the  received  opinion,  that  a  lion  will  not  hurt  a  virgin.  Sev- 
eral, who  pretended  to  have  seen  the  opera  in  Italy,  had  in- 
formed their  friends  that  the  lion  was  to  act  a  part  in  high  Dutch, 
and  roar  twice  or  thrice  to  a  thorough  bass  before  he  fell  at  the 

iThe   Cavaliere   Nicolino   Grimaldi,   a  perhaps    ever    appeared    on    a    stage" 

Neapolitan,    came    to    London    in    1708.  (•' Spectator,"  405).    He  is  alluded  to  by 

He    performed    first    in    "  Pyrrhus    and  Addison  in  "  Spectator,     5,  as  acting  m 

Demetrius  "  in  1710,  the  last  of  the  mon-  the    opera    "  Rinaldo  "    by        Mynheer 

grel    Anglo-Italian    operas.     In    1712    he  Handel."                                                     .   . 

left  England,  after  gaining  the  name  of  *  An    opera    by    Francesco     Mancini, 

being   "  the   greatest  performer  in  dra-  produced  at  the  Haymarket,   1710. 
tnatick  music  that  is  now  living,  or  that 

211 


212  ADDISON 

feet  of  Hydaspes.  To  clear  up  a  matter  that  was  so  variously 
reported,  I  have  made  it  my  business  to  examine  whether  this 
pretended  lion  is  really  the  savage  he  appears  to  be,  or  only  a 
counterfeit. 

But  before  I  communicate  my  discoveries,  I  must  acquaint 
the  reader,  that  upon  my  walking  behind  the  scenes  last  win- 
ter, as  I  was  thinking  on  something  else,  I  accidentally  jostled 
against  a  monstrous  animal  that  extremely  startled  me,  and, 
upon  my  nearer  survey  of  it,  appeared  to  be  a  lion  rampant. 
The  lion  seeing  me  very  much  surprised  told  me,  in  a  gentle 
voice,  that  I  might  come  by  him  if  I  pleased  ;  "  for,"  says  he,  "  I 
do  not  intend  to  hurt  anybody."  I  thanked  him  very  kindly, 
and  passed  by  him :  and  in  a  little  time  after  saw  him  leap  upon 
the  stage,  and  act  his  part  with  very  great  applause.  It  has 
been  observed  by  several  that  the  lion  has  changed  his  manner 
of  acting  twice  or  thrice  since  his  first  appearance ;  which  will 
not  seem  strange  when  I  acquaint  my  reader  that  the  lion  has 
been  changed  upon  the  audience  three  several  times.  The  first 
lion  was  a  candle-snuffer,  who,  being  a  fellow  of  a  testy,  choleric 
temper,  overdid  his  part,  and  would  not  suffer  himself  to  be 
killed  as  easily  as  he  ought  to  have  done ;  besides,  it  was  ob- 
served of  him,  that  he  grew  more  surly  every  time  that  he  came 
out  of  the  lion  ;  and  having  dropt  some  words  in  ordinary  con- 
versation, as  if  he  had  not  fought  his  best,  and  that  he  suffered 
himself  to  be  thrown  upon  his  back  in  the  scuffle,  and  that  he 
would  wrestle  with  Mr.  Nicolini  for  what  he  pleased,  out  of  his 
lion's  skin,  it  was  thought  proper  to  discard  him :  and  it  is  verily 
believed  to  this  day,  that  had  he  been  brought  upon  the  stage 
another  time,  he  would  certainly  have  done  mischief.  Besides, 
it  was  objected  against  the  first  lion,  that  he  reared  himself  so 
high  upon  his  hinder  paws,  and  walked  in  so  erect  a  posture, 
that  he  looked  more  like  an  old  man  than  a  lion. 

The  second  lion  was  a  tailor  by  trade,  who  belonged  to  the 
playhouse,  and  had  the  character  of  a  mild  and  peaceable  man 
in  his  profession.  If  the  former  was  too  furious,  this  was  too 
sheepish  for  his  part ;  insomuch,  that  after  a  short  modest  walk 
upon  the  stage,  he  would  fall  at  the  first  touch  of  Hydaspes, 
without  grappling  with  him,  and  giving  him  an  opportunity  of 
showing  his  variety  of  Italian  trips.  It  is  said,  indeed,  that  he 
once  gave  him  a  rip  in  his  flesh-colored  doublet :  but  this  was 


NICOLINI    AND   THE   LIONS  213 

only  to  make  work  for  himself,  in  his  private  character  of  a 
tailor.  I  must  not  omit  that  it  was  this  second  lion  who  treated 
me  with  so  much  humanity  behind  the  scenes. 

The  acting  lion  at  present  is,  as  I  am  informed,  a  country 
gentleman,  who  does  it  for  his  diversion,  but  desires  his  name 
may  be  concealed.  He  says  very  handsomely  in  his  own  ex- 
cuse, that  he  does  not  act  for  gain,  that  he  indulges  an  innocent 
pleasure  in  it ;  and  that  it  is  better  to  pass  away  an  evening  in 
this  manner  than  in  gaming  and  drinking :  but  at  the  same  time 
says,  with  a  very  agreeable  raillery  upon  himself,  that  if  his 
name  should  be  known,  the  ill-natured  world  might  call  him, 
"  The  ass  in  the  lion's  skin."  This  gentleman's  temper  is  made 
out  of  such  a  happy  mixture  of  the  mild  and  the  choleric  that  he 
outdoes  both  his  predecessors,  and  has  drawn  together  greater 
audiences  than  have  been  known  in  the  memory  of  man. 

I  must  not  conclude  my  narrative  without  first  taking  notice 
of  a  groundless  report  that  has  been  raised  to  a  gentleman's 
disadvantage  of  whom  I  must  declare  myself  an  admirer; 
namely,  that  Signor  Nicolini  and  the  lion  have  been  seen  set- 
ting peaceably  by  one  another,  and  smoking  a  pipe  together  be- 
hind the  scenes ;  by  which  their  common  enemies  would  in- 
sinuate that  it  is  but  a  sham  combat  which  they  represent  upon 
the  stage ;  but  upon  inquiry  I  find,  that  if  any  such  correspond- 
ence has  passed  between  them,  it  was  not  till  the  combat  was 
over,  when  the  lion  was  to  be  looked  upon  as  dead,  according 
to  the  received  rules  of  the  drama.  Besides,  this  is  what  is  prac- 
tised every  day  in  Westminster  Hall,  where  nothing  is  more 
usual  than  to  see  a  couple  of  lawyers,  who  have  been  tearing 
each  other  to  pieces  in  the  court,  embracing  one  another  as  soon 
as  they  are  out  of  it. 

I  would  not  be  thought  in  any  part  of  this  relation  to  reflect 
upon  Signor  Nicolini,  who  in  acting  this  part  only  complies  with 
the  wretched  taste  of  his  audience ;  he  knows  very  well  that  the 
lion  has  many  more  admirers  than  himself ;  as  they  say  of  the 
famous  equestrian  statue  on  the  Pont-Neuf  at  Paris,  that  more 
people  go  to  see  the  horse  than  the  king  who  sits  upon  it.  On 
the  contrary,  it  gives  me  a  just  indignation  to  see  a  person  whose 
action  gives  new  majesty  to  kings,  resolution  to  heroes,  and 
softness  to  lovers,  thus  sinking  from  the  greatness  of  his  be- 
havior, and  degraded  into  the  character  of  the  London  'prentice. 


214  ADDISON 

I  have  often  wished  that  our  tragedians  would  copy  after  this 
great  master  of  action.  Could  they  make  the  same  use  of  their 
arms  and  legs,  and  inform  their  faces  with  as  significant  looks 
and  passions,  how  glorious  would  an  English  tragedy  appear 
with  that  action,  which  is  capable  of  giving  dignity  to  the  forced 
thoughts,  cold  conceits,  and  unnatural  expressions  of  an  Italian 
opera !  In  the  meantime,  I  have  related  this  combat  of  the  lion, 
to  show  what  are  at  present  the  reigning  entertainments  of  the 
politer  part  of  Great  Britain. 

Audiences  have  often  been  reproached  by  writers  for  the 
coarseness  of  their  tastes,  but  our  present  grievance  does  not 
seem  to  be  the  want  of  a  good  taste,  but  of  common  sense. 


FANS 

Lusus  animo  debent  aliquando  dart, 
"Ad  cogitandum  melior  ut  rcdeat  sibi. 

— Phcedriis,  "  Fables,"  xiv.  5. 

The  mind  ought  sometimes  to  be  diverted,  that  it  may  return  the  better 
to  thinking. 

I  DO  not  know  whether  to  call  the  following  letter  a  satire 
upon  coquettes,  or  a  representation  of  their  several  fan- 
tastical accomplishments,  or  what  other  title  to  give  it ; 
but,  as  it  is,  I  shall  communicate  it  to  the  public.     It  will  suffi- 
ciently explain  its  own  intentions,  so  that  I  shall  give  it  my 
reader  at  length,  without  either  preface  or  postscript : 

"  Mr.  Spectator  : 

"  Women  are  armed  with  fans  as  men  with  swords,  and  some- 
times do  more  execution  with  them.  To  the  end  therefore  that 
ladies  may  be  entire  mistresses  of  the  weapons  which  they  bear, 
I  have  erected  an  academy  for  the  training  up  of  young  women 
in  the  exercise  of  the  fan,  according  to  the  most  fashionable  airs 
and  motions  that  are  now  practised  at  court.  The  ladies  who 
carry  fans  under  me  are  drawn  up  twice  a  day  in  my  great  hall, 
where  they  are  instructed  in  the  use  of  their  arms,  and  exer- 
cised by  the  following  words  of  command : — Handle  your  fans, 
Unfurl  your  fans,  Discharge  your  fans,  Ground  your  fans,  Re- 
cover your  fans,  Flutter  your  fans.  By  the  right  observation 
of  these  few  plain  words  of  command,  a  woman  of  a  tolerable 
genius,  who  will  apply  herself  diligently  to  her  exercise  for  the 
space  of  but  one  half-year,  shall  be  able  to  give  her  fan  all  the 
graces  that  can  possibly  enter  into  that  little  modish  machine. 

"  But  to  the  end  that  my  readers  may  form  to  themselves  a 
right  notion  of  this  exercise,  I  beg  leave  to  explain  it  to  them 
in  all  its  parts.  When  my  female  regiment  is  drawn  up  in  ar- 
ray, with  everyone  her  weapon  in  her  hand,  upon  my  giving 

215 


2i6  ADDISON 

the  word  to  handle  their  fans,  each  of  them  shakes  her  fan  at 
me  with  a  smile,  then  gives  her  right-hand  woman  a  tap  upon 
the  shoulder,  then  presses  her  lips  with  the  extremity  of  her 
fan,  then  lets  her  arms  fall  in  an  easy  motion,  and  stands  in 
readiness  to  receive  the  next  word  of  command.  All  this  is 
done  with  a  close  fan,  and  is  generally  learned  in  the  first  week. 

"  The  next  motion  is  that  of  unfurling  the  fan,  in  which  are 
comprehended  several  little  flirts  and  vibrations,  as  also  gradual 
and  deliberate  openings,  with  many  voluntary  fallings  asunder 
in  the  fan  itself,  that  are  seldom  learned  under  a  month's  prac- 
tice. This  part  of  the  exercise  pleases  the  spectators  more  than 
any  other,  as  it  discovers  on  a  sudden  an  infinite  number  of 
cupids,  garlands,  altars,  birds,  beasts,  rainbows,  and  the  like 
agreeable  figures,  that  display  themselves  to  view,  whilst  every- 
one in  the  regiment  holds  a  picture  in  her  hand. 

"  Upon  my  giving  the  word  to  discharge  their  fans,  they  give 
one  general  crack  that  may  be  heard  at  a  considerable  distance 
when  the  wind  sits  fair.  This  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  parts 
of  the  exercise,  but  I  have  several  ladies  with  me,  who  at  their 
first  entrance  could  not  give  a  pop  loud  enough  to  be  heard  at 
the  farther  end  of  a  room,  who  can  now  discharge  a  fan  in  such 
a  manner,  that  it  shall  make  a  report  like  a  pocket-pistol.  I  have 
likewise  taken  care  (in  order  to  hinder  young  women  from  let- 
ting off  their  fans  in  wrong  places  or  on  unsuitable  occasions) 
to  show  upon  what  subject  the  crack  of  a  fan  may  come  in 
properly :  I  have  likewise  invented  a  fan,  with  which  a  girl  of 
sixteen,  by  the  help  of  a  little  wind  which  is  enclosed  about  one 
of  the  largest  sticks,  can  make  as  loud  a  crack  as  a  woman  of 
fifty  with  an  ordinary  fan. 

"  When  the  fans  are  thus  discharged,  the  word  of  command 
in  course  is  to  ground  their  fans.  This  teaches  a  lady  to  quit 
her  fan  gracefully  when  she  throws  it  aside  in  order  to  take  up 
a  pack  of  cards,  adjust  a  curl  of  hair,  replace  a  falling  pin,  or 
apply  herself  to  any  other  matter  of  importance.  This  part  of 
the  exercise,  as  it  only  consists  in  tossing  a  fan  with  an  air  upon 
a  long  table  (which  stands  by  for  that  purpose),  may  be  learned 
in  two  days'  time  as  well  as  in  a  twelvemonth. 

"  When  my  female  regiment  is  thus  disarmed,  I  generally  let 
them  vi^alk  about  the  room  for  some  time;  when  on  a  sudden 
(like  ladies  that  look  upon  their  watches  after  a  long  visit)  they 


FANS  217 

all  of  them  hasten  to  theii*  arms,  catch  them  up  in  a  hurry,  and 
place  themselves  in  their  proper  stations  upon  my  calling  out, 
Recover  your  fans.  This  part  of  the  exercise  is  not  difficult, 
provided  a  woman  applies  her  thoughts  to  it. 

"  The  fluttering  of  the  fan  is  the  last,  and  indeed  the  master- 
piece of  the  whole  exercise ;  but  if  a  lady  does  not  misspend  her 
time,  she  may  make  herself  mistress  of  it  in  three  months.  I 
generally  lay  aside  the  dog-days  and  the  hot  time  of  the  summer 
for  the  teaching  of  this  part  of  the  exercise ;  for  as  soon  as  ever 
I  pronounce,  Flutter  your  fans,  the  place  is  filled  with  so  many 
zephyrs  and  gentle  breezes  as  are  very  refreshing  in  that  season 
of  the  year,  though  they  might  be  dangerous  to  ladies  of  a  tender 
constitution  in  any  other. 

"  There  is  an  infinite  variety  of  motions  to  be  made  use  of  in 
the  flutter  of  a  fan.  There  is  the  angry  flutter,  the  modest 
flutter,  the  timorous  flutter,  the  confused  flutter,  the  merry 
flutter,  and  the  amorous  flutter.  Not  to  be  tedious,  there 
is  scarce  any  emotion  in  the  mind  which  does  not  produce 
a  suitable  agitation  in  the  fan ;  insomuch,  that  if  I  only  see 
the  fan  of  a  disciplined  lady,  I  know  very  well  whether  she 
laughs,  frowns,  or  blushes.  I  have  seen  a  fan  so  very  angry, 
that  it  would  have  been  dangerous  for  the  absent  lover  who  pro- 
voked it  to  have  come  within  the  wind  of  it ;  and  at  other  times 
I  so  very  languishing,  that  I  have  been  glad  for  the  lady's  sake 
;the  lover  was  at  sufficient  distance  from  it.  I  need  not  add, 
that  a  fan  is  either  a  prude  or  coquette,  according  to  the  nature 
of  the  person  who  bears  it.  To  conclude  my  letter,  I  must  ac- 
quaint you  that  I  have  from  my  own  observations  compiled  a 
little  treatise  for  the  use  of  my  scholars,  entitled.  The  Passions 
of  the  Fan ;  which  I  will  communicate  to  you,  if  you  think  it 
may  be  of  use  to  the  public.  I  shall  have  a  general  review  on 
[Thursday  next ;  to  which  you  shall  be  very  welcome  if  you  will 
honor  it  with  your  presence. 

"  I  am,  etc. 

"  P.S.  I  teach  young  gentlemen  the  whole  art  of  gallanting 
a  fan. 

"  N.B.  I  have  several  little  plain  fans  made  for  this  use,  to 
avoid  expense." 


SIR   ROGER  AT  THE  ASSIZES 

Comes  jucundus  in  via  pro  vehiculo  est. — Publ.  Syr.  "  Frag." 
An  agreeable  companion  upon  the  road  is  as  good  as  a  coach. 

A  MAN'S  first  care  should  be  to  avoid  the  reproaches  of 
of  his  own  heart ;  his  next,  to  escape  the  censures  of 
the  world.  If  the  last  interferes  with  the  former,  it 
ought  to  be  entirely  neglected ;  but  otherwise  there  cannot  be 
a  greater  satisfaction  to  an  honest  mind  than  to  see  those  ap- 
probations which  it  gives  itself  seconded  by  the  applauses  of 
the  public.  A  man  is  more  sure  of  his  conduct  when  the  verdict 
which  he  passes  upon  his  own  behavior  is  thus  warranted  and 
confirmed  by  the  opinion  of  all  that  know  him. 

My  worthy  friend  Sir  Roger  is  one  of  those  who  is  not  only 
at  peace  within  himself,  but  beloved  and  esteemed  by  all  about 
him.  He  receives  a  suitable  tribute  for  his  universal  benevo- 
lence to  mankind  in  the  returns  of  affection  and  goodwill  which 
are  paid  him  by  everyone  that  lives  within  his  neighborhood. 
I  lately  met  with  two  or  three  odd  instances  of  that  general  re- 
spect which  is  shown  to  the  good  old  knight.  He  would  needs 
carry  Will  Wimble  and  myself  with  him  to  the  country  assizes. 
'As  we  were  upon  the  road,  Will  Wimble  joined  a  couple  of  plain 
men  who  rid  before  us,  and  conversed  with  them  for  some  time, 
during  which  my  friend  Sir  Roger  acquainted  me  with  their 
characters. 

"  The  first  of  them,"  says  he,  "  that  has  a  spaniel  by  his  side, 
is  a  yeoman  of  about  £ioo  a  year,  an  honest  man.  He  is  just 
within  the  Game  Act,  and  qualified  to  kill  a  hare  or  a  pheasant. 
He  knocks  down  his  dinner  with  his  gun  twice  or  thrice  a  week ; 
and  by  that  means  lives  much  cheaper  than  those  who  have  not 
so  good  an  estate  as  himself.  He  would  be  a  good  neighbor  if 
he  did  not  destroy  so  many  partridges.  In  short,  he  is  a  very 
sensible  man,  shoots  flying,  and  has  been  several  times  foreman 
of  the  petty  jury. 

219 


2  20  ADDISON 

"  The  other  that  rides  along  with  him  is  Tom  Touchy,  a  fel- 
low famous  for  *  taking  the  law  '  of  everybody.  There  is  not 
one  in  the  town  where  he  lives  that  he  has  not  sued  at  a  quarter- 
sessions.  The  rogue  had  once  the  impudence  to  go  to  law  with 
the  widow.  His  head  is  full  of  costs,  damages,  and  ejectments. 
He  plagued  a  couple  of  honest  gentlemen  so  long  for  a  trespass 
in  breaking  one  of  his  hedges,  till  he  was  forced  to  sell  the 
ground  it  enclosed  to  defray  the  charges  of  the  prosecution. 
His  father  left  him  fourscore  pounds  a  year;  but  he  has  cast 
and  been  cast  so  often  that  he  is  not  now  worth  thirty.  I  sup- 
pose he  is  going  upon  the  old  business  of  the  willow-tree." 

As  Sir  Roger  was  giving  me  this  account  of  Tom  Touchy, 
Will  Wimble  and  his  two  companions  stopped  short  till  we  came 
up  to  them.  After  having  paid  their  respects  to  Sir  Roger, 
Will  told  him  that  Mr,  Touchy  and  he  must  appeal  to  him  upon 
a  dispute  that  arose  between  them.  Will,  it  seems,  had  been 
giving  his  fellow-traveller  an  account  of  his  angling  one  day  in 
such  a  hole,  when  Tom  Touchy,  instead  of  hearing  out  his  story, 
told  him  that  Mr.  Such-a-one,  if  he  pleased,  might  "  take  the 
law  of  him  "  for  fishing  in  that  part  of  the  river.  My  friend 
Sir  Roger  heard  them  both  upon  a  round  trot ;  and  after  hav- 
ing paused  some  time,  told  them,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
would  not  give  his  judgment  rashly,  that  "  much  might  be  said 
on  both  sides."  They  were  neither  of  them  dissatisfied  with 
the  knight's  determination,  because  neither  of  them  found  him- 
self in  the  wrong  by  it.  Upon  which  we  made  the  best  of  our 
way  to  the  assizes. 

The  court  was  sat  before  Sir  Roger  came ;  but  notwithstand- 
ing all  the  justices  had  taken  their  places  upon  the  bench,  they 
made  room  for  the  old  knight  at  the  head  of  them ;  who,  for  his 
reputation  in  the  country,  took  occasion  to  whisper  in  the  judge's 
ear,  "  that  he  was  glad  his  lordship  had  met  with  so  much  good 
weather  in  his  circuit."  I  was  listening  to  the  proceeding  of 
the  court  with  much  attention,  and  infinitely  pleased  with  that 
great  appearance  of  solemnity  which  so  properly  accompanies 
such  a  public  administration  of  our  laws ;  when,  after  about  an 
hour's  sitting,  I  observed,  to  my  great  surprise,  in  the  midst  of 
a  trial,  that  my  friend  Sir  Roger  was  getting  up  to  speak.  I 
,was  in  some  pain  for  him,  until  I  found  he  had  acquitted  him- 


SIR   ROGER   AT   THE    ASSIZES  221 

self  of  two  or  three  sentences,  with  a  look  of  much  business  and 
great  intrepidity. 

Upon  his  first  rising  the  court  was  hushed,  and  a  general 
whisper  ran  among  the  country  people  that  Sir  Roger  "  was 
up."  The  speech  he  made  was  so  little  to  the  purpose  that  I 
shall  not  trouble  my  readers  with  an  account  of  it;  and  I  be- 
lieve was  not  so  much  designed  by  the  knight  himself  to  inform 
the  court,  as  to  give  him  a  figure  in  my  eye,  and  keep  up  his 
credit  in  the  country. 

I  was  highly  delighted,  when  the  court  rose,  to  see  the  gen- 
tlemen of  the  country  gathering  about  my  old  friend,  and  striv- 
ing who  should  compliment  him  most;  at  the  same  time  that 
the  ordinary  people  gazed  upon  him  at  a  distance,  not  a  little 
admiring  his  courage  that  was  not  afraid  to  speak  to  the  judge. 

In  our  return  home  we  met  with  a  very  odd  accident,  which 
I  cannot  forbear  relating,  because  it  shows  how  desirous  all  who 
know  Sir  Roger  are  of  giving  him  marks  of  their  esteem.  When 
we  arrived  upon  the  verge  of  his  estate,  we  stopped  at  a  little 
inn  to  rest  ourselves  and  our  horses.  The  man  of  the  house 
had,  it  seems,  been  formerly  a  servant  in. the  knight's  family; 
and  to  do  honor  to  his  old  master,  had  some  time  since,  unknown 
to  Sir  Roger,  put  him  up  in  a  sign-post  before  the  door;  so 
that  the  knight's  head  had  hung  out  upon  the  road  about  a  week 
before  he  himself  knew  anything  of  the  matter.  As  soon  as 
Sir  Roger  was  acquainted  with  it,  finding  that  his  servant's 
indiscretion  proceeded  wholly  from  affection  and  goodwill,  he 
only  told  him  that  he  had  made  him  too  high  a  compliment; 
and  when  the  fellow  seemed  to  think  that  could  hardly  be,  added 
with  a  more  decisive  look,  that  it  was  too  great  an  honor  for  any 
man  under  a  duke ;  but  told  him  at  the  same  time  that  it  might 
be  altered  with  a  very  few  touches,  and  that  he  himself  would 
be  at  the  charge  of  it.  Accordingly  they  got  a  painter  by  the 
knight's  directions  to  add  a  pair  of  whiskers  to  the  face,  and  by 
a  little  aggravation  of  the  features  to  change  it  into  the  Sara- 
cen's Head.  I  should  not  have  known  this  story  had  not  the 
innkeeper,  upon  Sir  Roger's  alighting,  told  him  in  my  hearing 
that  his  honor's  head  was  brought  back  last  night  with  the  al- 
terations that  he  had  ordered  to  be  made  in  it.  Upon  this,  my 
friend,  with  his  usual  cheerfulness,  related  the  particulars  above 
mentioned,  and  ordered  the  head  to  be  brought  into  the  room. 


222  ADDISON 

I  could  not  forbear  discovering  greater  expressions  of  mirth 
than  ordinary  upon  the  appearance  of  this  monstrous  face,  un- 
der which,  notwithstanding  it  was  made  to  frown  and  stare  in 
a  most  extraordinary  manner,  I  could  still  discover  a  distant 
resemblance  to  my  old  friend.  Sir  Roger,  upon  seeing  me 
laugh,  desired  me  to  tell  him  truly  if  I  thought  it  possible  for 
people  to  know  him  in  that  disguise.  I  at  first  kept  my  usual 
silence ;  but  upon  the  knight's  conjuring  me  to  tell  him  whether 
it  was  not  still  more  like  himself  than  a  Saracen,  I  composed 
my  countenance  in  the  best  manner  I  could,  and  replied  that 
"  much  might  be  said  on  both  sides." 

These  several  adventures,  with  the  knight's  behavior  in  them, 
gave  me  as  pleasant  a  day  as  ever  I  met  with  in  any  of  my 
travels. 


THE  VISION  OF  MIRZA 

Omnem,  qucB  nunc  obducta  tuenti 
'Mortales  hebetat  visus  tibi,  et  huniida  circum 
Caligat,  nubem  eripiam.  — Virgil,  "  .^neid,"  r.  604. 

The  cloud,  which,  intercepting  the  clear  light, 
Hangs  o'er  thy  eyes,  and  blunts  thy  mortal  sight, 
I  will  remove. 

WHEN  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  tip  several  orien- 
tal manuscripts,  which  I  have  still  by  me.  Among 
others  I  met  with  one  entitled  "  The  Visions  of 
Mirza,"  which  I  have  read  over  with  great  pleasure.  I  intend 
to  give  it  to  the  public  when  I  have  no  other  entertainment  for 
them,  and  shall  begin  with  the  first  vision,  which  I  have  trans- 
lated word  for  word,  as  follows: — 

"  On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which  according  to  the  cus- 
tom of  my  forefathers  I  always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed 
myself  and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  ascended  the 
high  hills  of  Bagdad,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in 
meditation  and  prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the 
tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound  contemplation  on 
the  vanity  of  human  life,  and  passing  from  one  thought  to  an- 
other, '  Surely,'  said  I,  *  man  is  but  a  shadow,  and  life  a  dream.' 
Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the  summit 
of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  discovered  one 
in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  little  musical  instrument  in 
his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to  his  lips,  and 
began  to  play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  exceeding  sweet, 
and  wrought  into  a  variety  of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly 
melodious  and  altogether  different  from  anything  I  had  ever 
heard.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  those  heavenly  airs  that  are 
played  to  the  departed  souls  of  good  men  upon  their  first  ar- 
rival in  Paradise,  to  wear  out  the  impressions  of  the  last  agonies, 

223 


224  ADDISON 

and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures  oi  that  happy  place.  My 
heart  melted  away  in  secret  raptures. 

"  I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before  me  was  the  haunt 
of  a  genius ;  and  that  several  had  been  entertained  with  music 
who  had  passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the  musician  had 
before  made  himself  visible.  When  he  had  raised  my  thoughts 
by  those  transporting  airs  which  he  played,  to  taste  the  pleas- 
ures of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one  aston- 
ished, he  beckoned  to  me,  and  by  the  waving  of  his  hand  directed 
me  to  approach  the  place  where  he  sat.  I  drew  near  with  that 
reverence  which  is  due  to  a  superior  nature ;  and  as  my  heart 
was  entirely  subdued  by  the  captivating  strains  I  had  heard,  I 
fell  down  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The  genius  smiled  upon  me  with 
a  look  of  compassion  and  aflfability  that  familiarized  him  to  my 
imagination,  and  at  once  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehen- 
sions with  which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted  me  from  the 
ground,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand,  '  Mirza,'  said  he,  '  I  have 
heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies ;   follow  me.' 

"  He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and 
placing  me  on  the  top  of  it,  '  Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,'  said  he, 
'  and  tell  me  what  thou  seest.'  '  I  see,'  said  I,  *  a  huge  valley 
and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling  through  it.'  '  The  valley 
that  thou  seest,'  said  he,  '  is  the  Vale  of  Misery,  and  the  tide  of 
water  that  thou  seest  is  part  of  the  great  tide  of  eternity.' 
'  What  is  the  reason,'  said  I,  '  that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a 
thick  mift  at  one  end,  and  again  loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at 
the  other  ?  '  *  What  thou  seest,'  said  he,  '  is  that  portion  of 
eternity  which  is  called  time,  measured  out  by  the  sun,  and 
reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its  consummation. 
Examine  now,'  said  he,  '  this  sea  that  is  thus  bounded  with 
darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in  it.' 
'  I  see  a  bridge,'  said  I, '  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide.'  '  The 
bridge  thou  seest,'  said  he,  *  is  human  life;  consider  it  atten- 
tively.' Upon  a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it  I  found  that  it  con- 
sisted of  more  than  threescore  and  ten  entire  arches,  with  several 
broken  arches,  which,  added  to  those  that  were  entire,  made  up 
the  number  to  about  a  hundred.  As  I  was  counting  the  arches, 
the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  consisted  at  first  of  a  thou- 
sand arches ;  but  that  a  great  flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and 
left  the  bridge  in  the  ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.     '  But 


THE   VISION   OF   MIRZA  225 

tell  me  further,'  said  he,  '  what  thou  discoverest  on  it.'  '  I  see 
multitudes  of  people  passing  over  it,'  said  I,  *  and  a  black  cloud 
hanging  on  each  end  of  it.'  As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I  saw 
several  of  the  passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge  into  the 
great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it ;  and  upon  further  exam- 
ination, perceived  there  were  innumerable  trap-doors  that  lay- 
concealed  in  the  bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner  trod 
upon,  but  they  fell  through  them  into  the  tide  and  immediately 
disappeared.  These  hidden  pitfalls  were  set  very  thick  at  the 
entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke 
through  the  cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell  into  them.  They 
grew  thinner  towards  the  middle,  but  multiplied  and  lay  closer 
together  towards  the  end  of  the  arches  that  were  entire. 

"  There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their  number  was  very 
small,  that  continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken 
arches,  but  fell  through  one  after  another,  being  quite  tired  and 
spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

"  I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of  this  wonderful 
structure,  and  the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it  presented. 
My  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy  to  see  several  drop- 
ping unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jollity,  and  catch- 
ing at  everything  that  stood  by  them  to  save  themselves.  Some 
were  looking  up  towards  the  heavens  in  a  thoughtful  posture, 
and  in  the  midst  of  a  speculation  stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight. 
Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glit- 
tered in  their  eyes  and  danced  before  them,  but  often  when  they 
thought  themselves  within  the  reach  of  them  their  footing  failed 
and  down  they  sunk.  In  this  confusion  of  objects,  I  observed 
some  with  scimitars  in  their  hands,  and  others  with  urinals,  who 
ran  to  and  fro  upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on 
trap-doors  which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which 
they  might  have  escaped  had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon 
them. 

"  The  genius,  seeing  me  indulge  myself  on  this  melancholy 
prospect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it.  '  Take  thine 
eyes  off  the  bridge,'  said  he,  '  and  tell  me  if  thou  yet  seest  any- 
thing thou  dost  not  comprehend.'  Upon  looking  up,  'What 
mean,'  said  I,  '  those  great  flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetually 
hovering  about  the  bridge,  and  settling  upon  it  from  time  to 
time?    I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ravens,  cormorants,  and  among 


226  ADDISON 

many  other  feathered  creatures  several  little  winged  boys  that 
perch  in  great  number^  upon  the  middle  arches.'  '  These,'  said 
the  genius,  *  are  Envy,  Avarice,  Superstition,  Despair,  Love, 
with  the  like  cares  and  passions  that  infest  human  life,' 

"  I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  '  Alas,'  said  I,  '  man  was  made 
in  vain :  how  is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mortality,  tortured 
in  life,  and  swallowed  up  in  death ! '  The  genius  being  moved 
with  compassion  towards  me,  bid  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a 
prospect.  '  Look  no  more,'  said  he,  '  on  man  in  the  first  stage 
of  his  existence,  in  his  setting  out  for  eternity ;  but  cast  thine 
eye  on  that  thick  mist  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several  gen- 
erations of  mortals  that  fall  into  it.'  I  directed  my  sight  as  I 
was  ordered,  and  (whether  or  no  the  good  genius  strengthened 
it  with  any  supernatural  force,  or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist 
that  was  before  too  thick  for  eye  to  penetrate)  I  saw  the  valley 
opening  at  the  farther  end,  and  spreading  forth  into  an  im- 
mense ocean  that  had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through 
the  midst  of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The  clouds 
still  rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover 
nothing  in  it ;  but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean  planted 
with  innumerable  islands,  that  were  covered  with  fruits  and 
flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little  shining  seas  that 
ran  among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dressed  in  glorious  hab- 
its with  garlands  upon  their  heads,  passing  among  the  trees, 
lying  down  by  the  sides  of  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of  flow- 
ers ;  and  could  hear  a  confused  harmony  of  singing  birds,  fall- 
ing waters,  human  voices,  and  musical  instruments.  Gladness 
grew  in  me  upon  the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a  scene.  I 
wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle  that  I  might  fly  away  to  those 
happy  seats ;  but  the  genius  told  me  there  was  no  passage  to 
them  except  through  the  gates  of  death  that  I  saw  opening  every 
moment  upon  the  bridge.  '  The  islands,'  said  he,  *  that  lie  so 
fresh  and  green  before  thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  face  of 
the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou  canst  see,  are  more  in 
number  than  the  sands  on  the  seashore ;  there  are  myriads  of 
islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching  far- 
ther than  thine  eye,  or  even  thine  imagination  can  extend  itself. 
These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after  death,  who,  according 
to  the  degree  and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are 
distributed  among  these  several  islands,  which  abound  with 


THE   VISION   OF   MIRZA  227 

pleasures  of  different  kinds  and  degrees  suitable  to  the  relishes 
and  perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  in  them ;  every  island 
is  a  paradise  accommodated  to  its  respective  inhabitants.  Are 
not  these,  O  Mirza,  habitations  worth  contending  for?  Does 
life  appear  miserable  that  gives  thee  opportunities  of  earning 
such  a  reward  ?  Is  death  to  be  feared  that  will  convey  thee  to 
so  happy  an  existence  ?  Think  not  man  was  made  in  vain  who 
has  such  an  eternity  reserved  for  hirri.'  I  gazed  with  inexpres- 
sible pleasure  on  these  happy  islands.  At  length,  said  I,  '  Show 
me  now,  I  beseech  thee,  the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those  dark 
clouds  which  cover  the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of 
adamant.'  The  genius  making  me  no  answer,  I  turned  me 
about  to  address  myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that 
he  had  left  me ;  I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had 
been  so  long  contemplating ;  but,  instead  of  the  rolling  tide,  the 
arched  bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
long  valley  of  Bagdad,  with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels  grazing 
upon  the  sides  of  it." 

(The  end  of  the  First  Vision  of  Mirza) 


THE  ART  OF  GRINNING 

Remove  fera  monstra,  tuceque 
SaxiUcos  vultus,  qtuecunque  ea,  tolle  Medusa. 

— Ovid,  "  Metamorphoses,"  v.  2l6. 

Hence  with  those  monstrous  features,  and,  O  !  spare 
That  Gorgon's  look,  and  petrifying  stare. — P. 

IN  a  late  paper  I  mentioned  the  project  of  an  ingenious 
author  for  the  erecting  of  several  handicraft  prizes  to  be 
contended  for  by  our  British  artisans,  and  the  influence 
they  might  have  towards  the  improvement  of  our  several  manu- 
factures. I  have  since  that  been  very  much  surprised  by  the 
following  advertisement,  which  I  find  in  the  "  Post-Boy  "  ^  of 
the  eleventh  instant,  and  again  repeated  in  the  "  Post-Boy  "  of 
the  fifteenth : — 

"  On  the  ninth  of  October  next  will  be  run  for  upon  Coleshill- 
heath  in  Warwickshire,  a  plate  of  six  guineas  value,  three  heats, 
by  any  horse,  mare,  or  gelding,  that  hath  not  won  above  the 
value  of  is,  the  winning  horse  to  be  sold  for  iio.  To  carry 
ten  stone  weight,  if  fourteen  hands  high;  if  above  or  under 
to  carry  or  be  allowed  weight  for  inches,  and  to  be  entered  Fri- 
day the  fifteenth  at  the  Swan  in  Coleshill,  before  six  in  the 
evening.  Also  a  plate  of  less  value  to  be  run  for  by  asses.  The 
same  day  a  gold  ring  to  be  grinned  for  by  men." 

The  first  of  these  diversions  that  is  to  be  exhibited  by  the  £io 
racehorses,  may  probably  have  its  use ;  but  the  two  last,  in  which 
the  asses  and  men  are  concerned,  seem  to  me  altogether  extra- 
ordinary and  unaccountable.  Why  they  should  keep  running 
asses  at  Coleshill,  or  how  making  mouths  turns  to  account  in 
Warwickshire,  more  than  in  any  other  parts  of  England,  I  can- 
not comprehend.  I  have  looked  over  all  the  Olympic  games, 
and  do  not  find  anything  in  them  like  an  ass-race,  or  a  match 
at  grinning.     However  it  be,  I  am  informed  that  several  asses 

*  A   triweekly   which    began    in    May,   1695. 
229 


230  ADDISON 

are  now  kept  in  body-clothes,  and  sweated  every  morning 
upon  the  heath;  and  that  all  the  country-fellows  within  ten 
miles  of  the  Swan  grin  an  hour  or  two  in  their  glasses  every 
morning,  in  order  to  qualify  themselves  for  the  ninth  of  Oc- 
tober. The  prize  which  is  proposed  to  be  grinned  for  has  raised 
such  an  ambition  among  the  common  people  of  out-grinning  one 
another,  that  many  very  discerning  persons  are  afraid  it  should 
spoil  most  of  the  faces  in  the  county ;  and  that  a  Warwickshire 
man  will  be  known  by  his  grin,  as  Roman  Catholics  imagine  a 
Kentish  man  is  by  his  tail.  The  gold  ring,  which  is  made  the 
prize  of  deformity,  is  just  the  reverse  of  the  golden  apple  that 
was  formerly  made  the  prize  of  beauty,  and  should  carry  for  its 
poesy  the  old  motto  inverted : 

"  Detur  tetriori." 

Or,  to  accommodate  it  to  the  capacity  of  the  combatants, 

"  The  frightfull'st  grinner 
Be  the  winner." 

In  the  mean  while  I  would  advise  a  Dutch  painter  to  be  pres- 
ent at  this  great  controversy  of  faces,  in  order  to  make  a  col- 
lection of  the  most  remarkable  grins  that  shall  be  there  ex- 
hibited. 

I  must  not  here  omit  an  account  which  I  lately  received  of 
one  of  these  grinning-matches  from  a  gentleman,  who,  upon 
reading  the  above-mentioned  advertisement,  entertained  a  cof- 
fee-house with  the  following  narrative : — Upon  the  taking  of 
Namur,-  amidst  other  public  rejoicings  made  on  that  occasion, 
there  was  a  gold  ring  given  by  a  whig  justice  of  peace  to  be 
grinned  for.  The  first  competitor  that  entered  the  lists  was  a 
black  swarthy  Frenchman,  who  accidentally  passed  that  way, 
and  being  a  man  naturally  of  a  withered  look,  and  hard  features, 
promised  himself  good  success.  He  was  placed  upon  a  table 
in  the  great  point  of  view,  and  looking  upon  the  company  like 
Milton's  death, 

"  Grinn'd  horribly  a  ghastly  smile." 

His  muscles  were  so  drawn  together  on  each  side  of  his  face, 
that  he  showed  twenty  teeth  at  a  grin,  and  put  the  country  in 

•  Captured  by  William  in  1695. 


THE   ART  OF   GRINNING  231 

some  pain,  lest  a  foreigner  should  carry  away  the  honor  of  the 
day ;  but  upon  a  further  trial  they  found  he  was  master  only  of 
the  merry  grin. 

The  next  that  mounted  the  table  was  a  malcontent  in  those 
days,  and  a  great  master  in  the  whole  art  of  grinning,  but  par- 
ticularly excelled  in  the  angry  grin.  He  did  his  part  so  well 
that  he  is  said  to  have  made  half  a  dozen  women  miscarry ;  but 
the  justice  being  apprised  by  one  who  stood  near  him  that  the 
fellow  who  grinned  in  his  face  was  a  Jacobite,  and  being  un- 
willing that  a  disaffected  person  should  win  the  gold  ring,  and 
be  looked  upon  as  the  best  grinner  in  the  country,  he  ordered 
the  oaths  to  be  tendered  unto  him  upon  his  quitting  the  table, 
.which,  the  grinner  refusing,  he  was  set  aside  as  an  unqualified 
person.  There  were  several  other  grotesque  figures  that  pre- 
sented themselves,  which  it  would  be  too  tedious  to  describe. 
I  must  not  however  omit  a  ploughman,  who  lived  in  the  farther 
part  of  the  country,  and  being  very  lucky  in  a  pair  of  long  lan- 
tern-jaws,^ wrung  his  face  into  such  a  hideous  grimace,  that 
every  feature  of  it  appeared  under  a  different  distortion.  The 
whole  company  stood  astonished  at  such  a  complicated  grin,  and 
were  ready  to  assign  the  prize  to  him,  had  it  not  been  proved  by. 
one  of  his  antagonists  that  he  had  practised  with  verjuice  for 
some  days  before,  and  had  a  crab  found  upon  him  at  the  very 
time  of  grinning;  upon  which  the  best  judges  of  grinning  de- 
clared it  as  their  opinion  that  he  was  not  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
fair  grinner,  and  therefore  ordered  him  to  be  set  aside  as  a 
cheat. 

The  prize  it  seems  at  length  fell  upon  a  cobbler,  Giles  Gorgon 
by  name,  who  produced  several  new  grins  of  his  own  invention, 
having  been  used  to  cut  faces  for  many  years  together  over  his 
last.  At  the  very  first  grin  he  cast  every  human  feature  out  of 
his  countenance,  at  the  second  he  became  the  face  of  a  spout, 
at  the  third  a  baboon,  at  the  fourth  a  head  of  a  bass-viol,  and  at 
the  fifth  a  pair  of  nut-crackers.  The  whole  assembly  wondered 
at  his  accomplishments,  and  bestowed  the  ring  upon  him  unani- 
mously ;  but,  what  he  esteemed  more  than  all  the  rest,  a  country 
wench,  whom  he  had  wooed  in  vain  for  above  five  years  before, 
was  so  charmed  with  his  grins,  and  the  applauses  which  he  re- 

»  "  A  term  used  of  a  thin  visage,  such  as  if  a  candle  were  burning  in  the  mouth 
might  transmit  the  light  "  (Johnson). 


232  ADDISON 

ceived  on  all  sides,  that  she  married  him  the  week  following", 
and  to  this  day  wears  the  prize  upon  her  finger,  the  cobbler  hav- 
ing made  use  of  it  as  his  wedding-ring. 

This  paper  might  perhaps  seem  very  impertinent,  if  it  grew 
serious  in  the  conclusion.  I  would  nevertheless  leave  to  the 
consideration  of  those  who  are  the  patrons  of  this  monstrous » 
trial  of  skill,  whether  or  no  they  are  not  guilty,  in  some  measure, 
of  an  affront  to  their  species,  in  treating  after  this  manner  the 
"  human  face  divine,"  and  turning  that  part  of  us,  which  has  so 
great  an  image  impressed  upon  it,  into  the  image  of  a  monkey ; 
whether  the  raising  such  silly  competitions  among  the  ignorant, 
proposing  prizes  for  such  useless  accomplishments,  filling  the 
common  people's  heads  with  such  senseless  ambitions,  and  in- 
spiring them  with  such  absurd  ideas  of  superiority  and  pre- 
eminence, has  not  in  it  something  immoral  as  well  as  ridiculous. 


SIR   ROGER   AT  THE   ABBEY 

Ire  tamen  restat  Numa  quo  devenit  et  Ancus. — Horace,  "  Ep."  i.  6,  27. 

With  Ancus,  and  with  Numa,  kings  of  Rome, 
We  must  descend  into  the  silent  tomb. 

MY  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  told  me  t'other  night, 
that  he  had  been  reading  my  paper  ^  upon  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  in  which,  says  he,  there  are  a  great  many 
ingenious  fancies.  He  told  me  at  the  same  time  that  he  ob- 
served I  had  promised  another  paper  upon  the  tombs,  and  that 
he  should  be  glad  to  go  and  see  them  with  me,  not  having  visited 
them  since  he  had  read  history.  I  could  not  imagine  how  this 
came  into  the  knight's  head,  till  I  recollected  that  he  had  been 
very  busy  all  last  summer  upon  "  Baker's  Chronicle,"  which  he 
has  quoted  several  times  in  his  disputes  with  Sir  Andrew  Free- 
port  since  his  last  coming  to  town.  Accordingly,  I  promised 
to  call  upon  him  the  next  morning,  that  we  might  go  together 
to  the  abbey. 

I  found  the  knight  under  his  butler's  hands,  who  always 
shaves  him.  He  was  no  sooner  dressed  than  he  called  for  a 
glass  of  the  Widow  Trueby's  water,  which  he  told  me  he  always 
drank  before  he  went  abroad.  He  recommended  to  me  a  dram 
of  it  at  the  same  time,  with  so  much  heartiness,  that  I  could  not 
forbear  drinking  it.  As  soon  as  I  had  got  it  down,  I  found  it 
very  unpalatable ;  upon  which  the  knight,  observing  that  I  had 
made  several  wry  faces,  told  me  that  he  knew  I  should  not  like 
it  at  first,  but  that  it  was  the  best  thing  in  the  world  against  the 
stone  or  gravel. 

I  could  have  wished  indeed  that  he  had  acquainted  me  with 
the  virtues  of  it  sooner ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  complain,  and  I 
knew  what  he  had  done  was  out  of  goodwill.  Sir  Roger  told 
me  further,  that  he  looked  upon  it  to  be  very  good  for  a  man 
whilst  he  stayed  in  town,  to  keep  off  infection,  and  that  he  got 

^  "  Spectator,"  26, 

233  11-Vol.  57 


234  ADDISON 

together  a  quantity  of  it  upon  the  first  news  of  the  sickness  be- 
ing at  Dantzic :  when,  of  a  sudden,  turning  short  to  one  of  his 
servants,  who  stood  behind  him,  he  bid  him  call  a  hackney- 
coach  and  take  care  it  was  an  elderly  man  that  drove  it. 

He  then  resumed  his  discourse  upon  Mrs.  Trueby's  water, 
telling  me  that  the  Widow  Trueby  was  one  who  did  more  good 
than  all  the  doctors  and  apothecaries  in  the  county ;  that  she 
distilled  every  poppy  that  grew  within  five  miles  of  her;  that 
she  distributed  her  water  gratis  among  all  sorts  of  people :  to 
which  the  knight  added  that  she  had  a  very  great  jointure,  and 
that  the  whole  country  would  fain  have  it  a  match  between  him 
and  her;  "  and  truly,"  says  Sir  Roger,  "  if  I  had  not  been  en- 
gaged, perhaps  I  could  not  have  done  better." 

His  discourse  was  broken  off  by  his  man's  telling  him  he  had 
called  a  coach.  Upon  our  going  to  it,  after  having  cast  his  eye 
upon  the  wheels,  he  asked  the  coachman  if  his  axle-tree  was 
good:  upon  the  fellow's  telling  him  he  would  warrant  it,  the 
knight  turned  to  me,  told  me  he  looked  like  an  honest  man,  and 
.went  in  without  further  ceremony. 

We  had  not  gone  far,  when  Sir  Roger,  popping  out  his  head, 
called  the  coachman  down  from  his  box,  and  upon  presenting 
himself  at  the  window,  asked  him  if  he  smoked.  As  I  was  con- 
sidering what  this  would  end  in,  he  bid  him  stop  by  the  way  at 
any  good  tobacconist's,  and  take  in  a  roll  of  their  best  Virginia. 
Nothing  material  happened  in  the  remaining  part  of  our  jour- 
ney, till  we  were  set  down  at  the  west  end  of  the  abbey. 

As  we  went  up  the  body  of  the  church,  the  knight  pointed  at 
the  trophies  upon  one  of  the  new  monuments,  and  cried  out, 
"  A  brave  man,  I  warrant  him !  "  Passing  afterwards  by  Sir, 
Cloudsley  Shovel,^  he  flung  his  hand  that  way,  and  cried  "  Sir 
Cloudsley  Shovel !  a  very  gallant  man."  As  we  stood  before 
Busby's  ^  tomb,  the  knight  uttered  himself  again  after  the  same 
manner :  "  Dr.  Busby !  a  great  man :  he  whipped  my  grand- 
father ;  a  very  great  man !  I  should  have  gone  to  him  myself, 
if  I  had  not  been  a  blockhead — a  very  great  man !  " 

We  were  immediately  conducted  into  the  little  chapel  on  the 
right  hand.  Sir  Roger,  planting  himself  at  our  historian's  el- 
bow, was  very  attentive  to  everything  he  said,  particularly  to 

»  Drowned    off    the    Scilly    Isles,    Oc-  »  Headmaster  of  Westminster  (b.  1606, 

tober  22,  1707.  d.  1695). 


SIR   ROGER   AT   THE    ABBEY  235 

the  account  he  gave  us  of  the  lord  who  had  cut  off  the  King  of 
Morocco's  head.  Among  several  other  figures,  he  was  very 
well  pleased  to  see  the  statesman  Cecil  upon  his  knees ;  and  con- 
cluding them  all  to  be  great  men,  was  conducted  to  the  figure 
which  represents  that  martyr  to  good  housewifery  *  who  died 
by  the  prick  of  a  needle.  Upon  our  interpreter's  telling  us  that 
she  was  a  maid-of-honor  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  knight  was 
very  inquisitive  into  her  name  and  family ;  and,  after  having 
regarded  her  finger  for  some  time,  "  I  wonder,"  says  he,  "  that 
Sir  Richard  Baker  has  said  nothing  of  her  in  his  Chronicle." 

We  were  then  conveyed  to  the  two  coronation  chairs,^  where 
my  old  friend,  after  having  heard  that  the  stone  underneath  the 
most  ancient  of  them,  which  was  brought  from  Scotland,  was 
called  Jacob's  pillow,  sat  himself  down  in  the  chair,  and,  looking 
like  the  figure  of  an  old  Gothic  king,  asked  our  interpreter,  what 
authority  they  had  to  say  that  Jacob  had  ever  been  in  Scotland  ? 
The  fellow,  instead  of  returning  him  an  answer,  told  him,  that 
he  hoped  his  honor  would  pay  his  forfeit.  I  could  observe  Sir 
Roger  a  little  ruffled  upon  being  thus  trepanned,  but  our  guide 
not  insisting  upon  his  demand,  the  knight  soon  recovered  his 
good  humor,  and  whispered  in  my  ear,  that  if  Will  Wimble 
were  with  us,  and  saw  those  two  chairs,  it  would  go  hard  but 
he  would  get  a  tobacco  stopper  out  of  one  or  t'other  of  them. 

Sir  Roger,  in  the  next  place,  laid  his  hand  upon  Edward  Ill's 
sword,  and,  leaning  upon  the  pommel  of  it,  gave  us  the  whole 
history  of  the  Black  Prince;  concluding,  that,  in  Sir  Richard 
Baker's  opinion,  Edward  III  was  one  of  the  greatest  princes 
that  ever  sat  upon  the  English  throne. 

We  were  then  shown  Edward  the  Confessor's  tomb;  upon 
which  Sir  Roger  acquainted  us,  that  he  was  the  first  who  touched 
for  the  evil :  and  afterwards  Henry  IV's ;  upon  which  he  shook 
his  head,  and  told  us  there  was  fine  reading  in  the  casualties  of 
that  reign. 

Our  conductor  then  pointed  to  that  monument  where  there  is 
the  figure  of  one  of  our  English  kings  without  a  head ;  ®   and 

*  Lady  Elizabeth  Russel,  one  of  whose  other  is  Edward's  chair,  the  seat  of 
sisters  married  Lord  Burleigh,  and  an-  which  was  carried  off  from  Scone  in 
other  was  the  mother  of  Francis  Bacon.  1296,  and  was  said  by  tradition  to  have 
The  story  here  alluded  to  is  an  absurd  been   Jacob's   pillow. 

legend.  ^  -phe  head  of  Henry  V,  cast  in  silver, 

*  In  the  chapel  of  Edward  the  Con-  was  stolen  at  the  time  of  the  Keforma* 
feasor.    One  of  the  chairs  was  made  for       tion. 

the    coronation    of    Queen    Mary.    The 


236  ADDISON 

upon  giving  us  to  know  that  the  head,  which  was  of  beaten  sil- 
ver, had  been  stolen  away  several  years  since,  "  Some  Whig,  I'll 
warrant  you,"  says  Sir  Roger ;  "  you  ought  to  lock  up  your  kings 
better ;  they  will  carry  off  the  body  too,  if  you  don't  take  care." 

The  glorious  names  of  Henry  V  and  Queen  Elizabeth  gave 
the  knight  great  opportunities  of  shining,  and  of  doing  justice 
to  Sir  Richard  Baker,  who,  as  our  knight  observed  with  some 
surprise,  had  a  great  many  kings  in  him,  whose  monuments  he 
had  not  seen  in  the  abbey. 

For  my  own  part,  I  could  not  but  be  pleased  to  see  the  knight 
show  such  an  honest  passion  for  the  glory  of  his  country,  and 
such  a  respectful  gratitude  to  the  memory  of  its  princes. 

I  must  not  omit  that  the  benevolence  of  my  good  old  friend, 
which  flows  out  towards  everyone  he  converses  with,  made  him 
very  kind  to  our  interpreter,  whom  he  looked  upon  as  an  extra- 
ordinary man :  for  which  reason  he  shook  him  by  the  hand  at 
parting,  telling  him  that  he  should  be  very  glad  to  see  him  at 
his  lodgings  in  Norfolk  Buildings,  and  talk  over  these  matters 
with  him  more  at  leisure. 


SIR  ROGER  AT  THE  PLAY 

Respicere  exemplar  vitcE  morumque  jubebo 
Doctunt  imitatoreni,  et  veras  hinc  ducere  voces. 

— Horace,  "  Ars  Poetica,"  317, 

Keep  Nature's  great  original  in  view, 

And  thence  the  living  images  pursue. — Francis. 

MY  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  when  we  last  met  to- 
gether at  the  club,  told  me  that  he  had  a  great  mind 
to  see  the  new  tragedy  ^  with  me,  assuring  me  at  the 
same  time  that  he  had  not  been  at  a  play  these  twenty  years. 
"  The  last  I  saw,"  said  Sir  Roger,  "  was  '  The  Committee,'^ 
which  I  should  not  have  gone  to  neither,  had  not  I  been  told  be- 
forehand that  it  was  a  good  Church  of  England  comedy."  He 
then  proceeded  to  inquire  of  me  who  this  distressed  mother  was ; 
and  upon  hearing  that  she  was  Hector's  widow,  he  told  me  that 
her  husband  was  a  brave  man,  and  that  when  he  was  a  school- 
boy he  had  read  his  life  at  the  end  of  the  dictionary.  My  friend 
asked  me,  in  the  next  place,  if  there  would  not  be  some  danger 
in  coming  home  late,  in  case  the  Mohocks  ^  should  be  abroad. 
"  I  assure  you,"  says  he, "  I  thought  I  had  fallen  into  their  hands 
last  night ;  for  I  observed  two  or  three  lusty  black  men  that  fol- 
lowed me  half  way  up  Fleet-street,  and  mended  their  pace  be- 
hind me  in  proportion  as  I  put  on  to  get  away  from  them.  You 
must  know,"  continued  the  knight  with  a  smile,  "  I  fancied  they 
had  a  mind  to  hunt  me ;  for  I  remember  an  honest  gentleman 
in  my  neighborhood,  who  was  served  such  a  trick  in  King 

'  "The  Distrest  Mother,"  by  Ambrose  The     Mohocks     corresponded     to     the 

Philips,     1712,     founded     on     Racine's  Restoration    Scowrers.      There    was    a 

"  And-romaque."  special    scare    at    the    time    of    this    es- 

*  A   play   (1665)   by   Sir  Robert   How-  say. 

ard,   who   collaborated   with   Dryden   in  On  March  9,  1712,  Swift  wrote  to  Stella 

"  The  Indian  Queen."  that  "  it  is  not  safe  being  in  the  streets 

•  Who  has  not  trembled  at  the  Mohock's  at  night,  for  them."    So  great  was  the 

name?  alarm  that  on  March  17th  a  royal  proo 

Was  there  a  watchman  took  his  hourly  lamation  offered   £100  reward  for  tb**' 

rounds,  detection. 
Safe  from  their  blows  or  new  invented 
wounds?— Gay,  "  Trivia,"  bk.  III. 

237 


238  ADDISON 

Charles  IFs  time,  for  which  reason  he  has  not  ventured  himself 
in  town  ever  since.  I  might  have  shown  them  very  good  sport, 
had  this  been  their  design ;  for,  as  I  am  an  old  fox-hunter,  I 
should  have  turned  and  dodged  and  have  played  them  a  thou- 
sand tricks  they  had  never  seen  in  their  lives  before."  Sir 
Roger  added,  that  "  if  these  gentlemen  had  any  such  intention, 
they  did  not  succeed  very  well  in  it ;  for  I  threw  them  out,"  says 
he,  "  at  the  end  of  Norfolk-street,  where  I  doubled  the  corner, 
and  got  shelter  in  my  lodgings  before  they  could  imagine  what 
was  become  of  me.  However,"  says  the  knight,  "  if  Captain 
Sentry  will  make  one  with  us  to-morrow  night,  and  you  will 
both  of  you  call  upon  me  about  four  o'clock,  that  we  may  be  at 
the  house  before  it  is  full,  I  will  have  my  own  coach  in  readiness 
to  attend  you,  for  John  tells  me  he  has  got  the  fore-wheels 
mended." 

The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  meet  me  there  at  the  appointed 
hour,  bid  Sir  Roger  fear  nothing,  for  that  he  had  put  on  the 
same  sword  which  he  made  use  of  at  the  battle  of  Steenkirk.* 
Sir  Roger's  servants,  and  among  the  rest  my  old  friend  the  but- 
ler, had,  I  found,  provided  themselves  with  good  oaken  plants, 
to  attend  their  master  upon  this  occasion.  When  we  had  placed 
him  in  his  coach,  with  myself  at  his  left  hand,  the  captain  before 
him,  and  his  butler  at  the  head  of  his  footmen  in  the  rear,  we 
convoyed  him  in  safety  to  the  playhouse,  where,  after  having 
marched  up  the  entry  in  good  order,  the  captain  and  I  went  in 
with  him,  and  seated  him  betwixt  us  in  the  pit.  As  soon  as  the 
house  was  full,  and  the  candles  lighted,  my  old  friend  stood  up, 
and  looked  about  him  with  that  pleasure  which  a  mind  seasoned 
with  humanity  naturally  feels  in  itself,  at  the  sight  of  a  multi- 
tude of  people  who  seem  pleased  with  one  another,  and  partake 
of  the  same  common  entertainment.  I  could  not  but  fancy  to 
myself,  as  the  old  man  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,  that  he 
made  a  very  proper  centre  to  a  tragic  audience.  Upon  the  en- 
tering of  Pyrrhus,  the  knight  told  me  that  he  did  not  believe 
the  King  of  France  himself  had  a  better  strut.  I  was  indeed 
very  attentive  to  my  old  friend's  remarks,  because  I  looked  upon 
them  as  a  piece  of  natural  criticism,  and  was  well  pleased  to  hear 

*  King  William  was  forced  to  retreat  fray  that  they  did  not  take  time  to  ad- 
at  Stecnkirk  on  July  24,  1692,  before  the  just  their  neckcloths.  Hence  the  fash- 
Duke  of  Luxemburg.  The  French  gen-  ion  in  Queen  Anne's  reign  of  wearing  a 
crals,   it  is  said,   were  so  eager  for  the  scarf  with  studied  negligence. 


SIR  ROGER  AT  THE   PLAY  439 

him,  at  the  conclusion  of  almost  every  scene,  teUing  me  that  he 
could  not  imagine  how  the  play  would  end.  One  while  he  ap- 
peared much  concerned  for  Andromache ;  and  a  little  while 
after  as  much  for  Hermione;  and  was  extremely  puzzled  to 
think  what  would  become  of  Pyrrhus. 

When  Sir  Roger  saw  Andromache's  obstinate  refusal  to  her 
lover's  importunities,  he  whispered  me  in  the  ear,  that  he  was 
sure  she  would  never  have  him ;  to  which  he  added,  with  a  more 
than  ordinary  vehemence,  "  You  can't  imagine,  sir,  what  it  is 
to  have  to  do  with  a  widow."  Upon  Pyrrhus's  threatening  af- 
terwards to  leave  her,  the  knight  shook  his  head,  and  muttered 
to  himself,  "  Ay,  do  if  you  can."  This  part  dwelt  so  much  upon 
my  friend's  imagination,  that  at  the  close  of  the  third  act,  as  I 
was  thinking  of  something  else,  he  whispered  me  in  my  ear, 
*'  These  widows,  sir,  are  the  most  perverse  creatures  in  the 
world.  But  pray,"  says  he,  "  you  that  are  a  critic,  is  the  play 
according  to  your  dramatic  rules,  as  you  call  them?  Should 
your  people  in  tragedy  always  talk  to  be  understood?  Why, 
there  is  not  a  single  sentence  in  this  play  that  I  do  not  know  the 
fF.eaning  of." 

The  fourth  act  very  luckily  began  before  I  had  time  to  give 
the  old  gentleman  an  answer.  "  Well,"  says  the  knight,  sitting 
down  with  great  satisfaction,  "  I  suppose  we  are  now  to  see 
Hector's  ghost."  He  then  renewed  his  attention,  and,  from 
time  to  time,  fell  a-praising  the  widow.  He  made,  indeed,  a 
little  mistake  as  to  one  of  her  pages,  whom  at  his  first  entering 
he  took  for  Astyanax ;  but  quickly  set  himself  right  in  that  par- 
ticular, though,  at  the  same  time,  he  owned  he  should  have  been 
very  glad  to  have  seen  the  little  boy,  who,  says  he,  must  needs 
be  a  very  fine  child  by  the  account  that  is  given  of  him.  Upon 
Hermione's  going  o&  with  a  menace  to  Pyrrhus,  the  audience 
gave  a  loud  clap,  to  which  Sir  Roger  added,  "  On  my  word,  a 
notable  young  baggage !  " 

As  there  was  a  very  remarkable  silence  and  stillness  in  the 
audience  during  the  whole  action,  it  was  natural  for  them  to 
take  the  opportunity  of  these  intervals  between  the  acts  to  ex- 
press their  opinion  of  the  players  and  of  their  respective  parts. 
Sir  Roger,  hearing  a  cluster  of  them  praise  Orestes,  struck  in 
with  them,  and  told  them  that  he  thought  his  friend  Pylades 
was  a  very  sensible  man.     As  they  were  afterwards  applauding 


»40  ADDISON 

Pyrrhus,  Sir  Roger  put  in  a  second  time,  "  And  let  me  tell  you,* 
says  he,  "  though  he  speaks  but  little,  I  like  the  old  fellow  in 
whiskers  as  well  as  any  of  them."  Captain  Sentry,  seeing  two 
or  three  wags  who  sat  near  us  lean  with  an  attentive  ear  towards 
Sir  Roger,  and  fearing  lest  they  should  smoke  the  knight, 
plucked  him  by  the  elbow,  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear, 
that  lasted  till  the  opening  of  the  fifth  act.  The  knight  was 
wonderfully  attentive  to  the  account  which  Orestes  gives  of 
Pyrrhus's  death,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  it,  told  me  it  was  such 
a  bloody  piece  of  work  that  he  was  glad  it  was  not  done  upon 
the  stage.  Seeing  afterwards  Orestes  in  his  raving  fit,  he  grew 
more  than  ordinarily  serious,  and  took  occasion  to  moralize  (in 
his  way)  upon  an  evil  conscience,  adding,  that  Orestes,  in  his 
madness,  looked  as  if  he  saw  something. 

As  we  were  the  first  that  came  into  the  house,  so  we  were  the 
last  that  went  out  of  it ;  being  resolved  to  have  a  clear  passage 
for  our  old  friend,  whom  we  did  not  care  to  venture  among  the 
jostling  of  the  crowd.  Sir  Roger  went  out  fully  satisfied  with 
his  entertainment,  and  we  guarded  him  to  his  lodging  in  the 
same  manner  that  we  brought  him  to  the  playhouse;  being 
highly  pleased  for  my  own  part,  not  only  with  the  performance 
of  the  excellent  piece  which  had  been  presented,  but  with  the 
satisfaction  which  it  had  given  to  the  good  old  man. 


THE  TORY  FOX-HUNTER 

Studiis  rudis,  sermone  harbarus,  impetu  strenuus,  maim  promptus,  cogi' 
tatione  celer. — Veil.  Paterc. 

FOR  the  honor  of  His  Majesty,  and  the  safety  of  his  gov- 
ernment/ we  cannot  but  observe  that  those  who  have 
appeared  the  greatest  enemies  to  both  are  of  that  rank 
of  men  who  are  commonly  distinguished  by  the  title  of  fox- 
hunters.  As  several  of  these  have  had  no  part  of  their  educa- 
tion in  cities,  camps,  or  courts,  it  is  doubtful  whether  they  are 
of  greater  ornament  or  use  to  the  nation  in  which  they  live.  It 
would  be  an  everlasting  reproach  to  politics  should  such  men 
be  able  to  overturn  an  establishment  which  has  been  formed  by 
the  wisest  laws,  and  is  supported  by  the  ablest  heads.  The 
wrong  notions  and  prejudices  which  cleave  to  many  of  these 
country  gentlemen,  who  have  always  lived  out  of  the  way  o£ 
being  better  informed,  are  not  easy  to  be  conceived  by  a  person 
who  has  never  conversed  with  them. 

That  I  may  give  my  readers  an  image  of  these  rural  states- 
men, I  shall,  without  further  preface,  set  down  an  account  of  a 
discourse  I  chanced  to  have  with  one  of  them  some  time  ago. 
I  was  travelling  towards  one  of  the  remote  parts  of  England, 
when  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  seeing  a  country  gen- 
tleman trotting  before  me  with  a  spaniel  by  his  horse's  side,  I 
made  up  to  him.  Our  conversation  opened,  as  usual,  upon  the 
weather,  in  which  we  were  very  unanimous,  having  both  agreed 
that  it  was  too  dry  for  the  season  of  the  year.  My  fellow- 
traveller,  upon  this,  observed  to  me  that  there  had  been  no  good 
weather  since  the  Revolution,  I  was  a  little  startled  at  so  ex- 
traordinary a  remark,  but  would  not  interrupt  him  till  he  pro- 
ceeded to  tell  me  of  the  fine  weather  they  used  to  have  in  King 

» This    essay    is    from    "  The    Free-  was    purely    political,    and     its    main 

holder."     This    paper    was   written  en-  topics  were  "  the  enormity  of  rebellion 

tirely    by    Addison,    and    consisted    of  and  the  prejudices  of  ignorance  and  fac- 

fifty-five    numbers,    from    December    23,  tion."       The     "  Tory     Fox-hunter "     is 

J715.    to    June    29,    1716.      Its    object  painted  manifestly  by  a  Whig  brush. 

241 


«42  ADDISON 

Charles  II's  reign.  I  only  answered  that  I  did  not  see  how 
the  badness  of  the  weather  could  be  the  king's  fault ;  and,  with- 
out waiting  for  his  reply,  asked  him  whose  house  it  was  we  saw 
upon  a  rising  ground  at  a  little  distance  from  us.  He  told  me 
it  belonged  to  an  old  fanatical  cur,  Mr.  Such-a-one.  "  You 
must  have  heard  of  him,"  says  he,  "  he's  one  of  the  Rump."  I 
knew  the  gentleman's  character  upon  hearing  his  name,  but  as- 
sured him  that  to  my  knowledge  he  was  a  good  churchman, 
"  Ay,"  says  he,  with  a  kind  of  surprise,  "  we  were  told  in  the 
country  that  he  spoke  twice,  in  the  Queen's  time,  against  taking 
off  the  duties  upon  French  claret."  This  naturally  led  us  in 
the  proceedings  of  late  parliaments,  upon  which  occasion  he 
affirmed  roundly  that  there  had  not  been  one  good  law  passed 
since  King  William's  accession  to  the  throne,  except  the  act  for 
preserving  the  game.  I  had  a  mind  to  see  him  out,  and  there- 
fore did  not  care  foi  contradicting  him.  "  Is  it  not  hard,"  says 
he,  "  that  honest  gentlemen  should  be  taken  into  custody  of 
messengers  to  prevent  them  from  acting  according  to  their  con- 
sciences ?  But,"  says  he,  "  what  can  we  expect  when  a  parcel  of 
factious  scoundrels — ."  He  was  going  on  in  great  passion,  but 
chanced  to  miss  his  dog,  who  was  amusing  himself  about  a  bush 
that  grew  at  some  distance  behind  us.  We  stood  still  till  he  had 
whistled  him  up,  when  he  fell  into  a  long  panegyric  upon  his 
spaniel,  who  seemed,  indeed,  excellent  in  his  kind;  but  I  found 
the  most  remarkable  adventure  of  his  life  was  that  he  had  once 
like  to  have  worried  a  dissenting  teacher.^  The  master  could 
hardly  sit  on  his  horse  for  laughing  all  the  while  he  was  giving 
me  the  particulars  of  this  story,  which  I  found  had  mightily 
endeared  his  dog  to  him,  and  as  he  himself  told  me,  had  made 
him  a  great  favorite  among  all  the  honest  gentlemen  of  the 
country.  We  were  at  length  diverted  from  this  piece  of  mirth 
by  a  post-boy,  who  winding  his  horn  at  us,  my  companion  gave 
him  two  or  three  curses,  and  left  the  way  clear  for  him.  "  T 
fancy,"  said  I,  "  that  post  brings  news  from  Scotland.  I  shall 
long  to  see  the  next  *  Gazette.* "  "  Sir,"  says  he,  "  I  make 
it  a  rule  never  to  believe  any  of  your  printed  news.  We  never 
see,  sir,  how  things  go,  except  now  and  then  in  *  Dyer's  Letter,*" 
and  I  read  that  more  for  the  style  than  the  news.     The  man  has 

>  Fielding    probably    profited    by    Ad-        drews  "  the  squire  who  set  his  dogs  on 
dison's    sketch,    when    twenty-six    years        Parson  Adams. 
later    he    described    in    "  Joseph    An-  • "  Dyer's  News-Letter      began  about 


THE   TORY   FOX-HUNTER  243 

a  clever  pen,  it  must  be  owned.  But  is  it  not  strange  that  we 
should  be  making  war  upon  Church  of  England  men,  with 
Dutch  and  Swiss  soldiers,  men  of  anti-monarchical  principles  ? 
These  foreigners  will  never  be  loved  in  England,  sir ;  they  have 
not  that  wit  and  good-breeding  that  we  have."  I  must  confess 
I  did  not  expect  to  hear  my  new  acquaintance  value  himself  upon 
these  qualifications,  but  finding  him  such  a  critic  upon  foreign- 
ers, I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  travelled.  He  told  me  he  did  not 
know  what  travelling  was  good  for,  but  to  teach  a  man  to  ride 
the  great  horse,  to  jabber  French,  and  to  talk  against  passive 
obedience ;  to  which  he  added  that  he  scarce  ever  knew  a  travel- 
ler in  his  life  who  had  not  forsook  his  principles  and  lost  his 
hunting-seat.  "  For  my  part,"  says  he,  "  I  and  my  father  be- 
fore me  have  always  been  for  passive  obedience,  and  shall  be 
always  for  opposing  a  prince  who  makes  use  of  ministers  that 
are  of  another  opinion.  But  where  do  you  intend  to  inn  to- 
night? (for  we  were  now  come  in  sight  of  the  next  town).  I 
can  help  you  to  a  very  good  landlord  if  you  will  go  along  with 
me.  He  is  a  lusty  jolly  fellow,  that  lives  well,  at  least  three 
yards  in  the  girt,  and  the  best  Church  of  England  man  upon  the 
road."  I  had  a  curiosity  to  see  this  High-church  innkeeper,  as 
well  as  to  enjoy  more  of  the  conversation  of  my  fellow-traveller, 
and  therefore  readily  consented  to  set  our  horses  together  for 
that  night.  As  we  rode  side  by  side  through  the  town,  I  was 
let  into  the  characters  of  all  the  principal  inhabitants  whom  we 
met  in  our  way.  One  was  a  dog,  another  a  whelp,  another 
a  cur,  and  another  a  mongrel,  under  which  several  denomi- 
nations were  comprehended  all  that  voted  on  the  Whig  side 
in  the  last  election  of  burgesses.  As  for  those  of  his  own 
party,  he  distinguished  them  by  a  nod  of  his  head,  and  asking 
them  how  they  did  by  their  Christian  names.  Upon  our  ar- 
rival at  the  inn  my  companion  fetched  out  the  jolly  landlord, 
who  knew  him  by  his  whistle.  Many  endearments  and  private 
whispers  passed  between  them,  though  it  was  easy  to  see,  by 
the  landlord's  scratching  his  head,  that  things  did  not  go  to 
their  wishes.  The  landlord  had  swelled  his  body  to  a  pro- 
digious size,  and  worked  up  his  complexion  to  a  standing  crim- 

1690.    Steele  in  *'  Tatler,"  18,  states  that  "  I    believe    he   is   still    living,    because 

it  was  specially  esteemed  by  fox-hunt-  the  news  of  his  death  was  first  pubtisbed 

ers  for  the   mar\-els   in   which   it   dealt.  in  *  Dyer's  Letter.'  " 
Cf.  Addison's  "  Drummer,"  act  ii.  sc.  i: 


/44  ADDISON 

son  by  his  zeal  for  the  prosperity  of  the  Church,  which  he  ex- 
pressed every  hour  of  the  day,  as  his  customers  dropped  in,  by 
repeated  bumpers.  He  had  not  time  to  go  to  church  himself, 
but,  as  my  friend  told  me  in  my  ear,  had  headed  a  mob  at  the 
pulling  down  of  two  or  three  meeting-houses.  While  supper 
was  preparing,  he  enlarged  upon  the  happiness  of  the  neighbor- 
ing shire ;  "  for,"  says  he,  "  there  is  scarce  a  Presbyterian  in  the 
whole  county,  except  the  bishop."  In  short,  I  found  by  his 
discourse  that  he  had  learned  a  great  deal  of  politics,  but  not 
one  word  of  religion,  from  the  parson  of  his  parish;  and,  in- 
deed, that  he  had  scarce  any  other  notion  of  religion  but  that  it 
consisted  in  hating  Presbyterians.  I  had  a  remarkable  instance 
of  his  notions  in  this  particular.  Upon  seeing  a  poor  decrepit 
old  woman  pass  under  the  window  where  we  sat,  he  desired  me 
to  take  notice  of  her ;  and  afterwards  informed  me  that  she  was 
generally  reputed  a  witch  by  the  country  people,  but  that,  for 
his  part,  he  was  apt  to  believe  she  was  a  Presbyterian. 

Supper  was  no  sooner  served  in  that  he  took  occasion,  from 
a  shoulder  of  mutton  that  lay  before  us,  to  cry  up  the  plenty  of 
England,  which  would  be  the  happiest  country  in  the  world, 
provided  we  would  live  within  ourselves.  Upon  which  he  ex- 
patiated on  the  inconveniences  of  trade,  that  carried  from  us 
the  commodities  of  our  country,  and  made  a  parcel  of  upstarts 
as  rich  as  men  of  the  most  ancient  families  of  England.  He 
then  declared  frankly  that  he  had  always  been  against  all  treaties 
and  alliances  with  foreigners.  "  Our  wooden  walls,"  says  he, 
"  are  our  security,  and  we  may  bid  defiance  to  the  whole  world, 
especially  if  they  should  attack  us  when  the  militia  is  out."  I 
ventured  to  reply  that  I  had  as  great  an  opinion  of  the  English 
fleet  as  he  had ;  but  I  could  not  see  how  they  could  be  paid,  and 
manned,  and  fitted  out,  unless  we  encouraged  trade  and  naviga- 
tion. He  replied,  with  some  vehemence,  that  he  would  under- 
take to  prove  trade  would  be  the  ruin  of  the  English  nation.  I 
would  fain  have  put  him  upon  it ;  but  he  contented  himself  with 
affirming  it  more  eagerly,  to  which  he  added  two  or  three  curses 
upon  the  London  merchants,  not  forgetting  the  directors  of  the 
bank.  After  supper  he  asked  me  if  I  was  an  admirer  of  punch, 
and  immediately  called  for  a  sneaker.  I  took  this  occasion  to 
insinuate  the  advantages  of  trade  by  observing  to  him  that  water 
was  the  only  native  of  England  that  could  be  made  use  of  on 


THE  TORY   FOX-HUNTER  245 

this  occasion,  but  that  the  lemons,  the  brandy,  the  sugar,  and 
the  nutmeg  were  all  foreigners.  This  put  him  into  confusion ; 
but  the  landlord,  who  overheard  me,  brought  him  off,  by  affirm- 
ing, that  for  constant  use,  there  was  no  liquor  like  a  cup  of 
English  water,  provided  it  had  malt  enough  in  it.  My  squire 
laughed  heartily  at  the  conceit,  and  made  the  landlord  sit  down 
with  us.  We  sat  pretty  late  over  our  punch;  and,  amidst  a 
great  deal  of  improving  discourse,  drank  the  healths  of  several 
persons  in  the  country,  whom  I  had  never  heard  of,  that,  they 
both  assured  me,  were  the  ablest  statesmen  in  the  nation :  and 
of  some  Londoners,  whom  they  extolled  to  the  skies  for  their 
wit,  and  who,  I  knew,  passed  in  town  for  silly  fellows.  It  being 
now  midnight,  and  my  friend  perceiving  by  his  almanac  that  the 
moon  was  up,  he  called  for  his  horses,  and  took  a  sudden  resolu- 
tion to  go  to  his  house,  which  was  at  three  miles  distance  from 
the  town,  after  having  bethought  himself  that  he  never  slept 
well  out  of  his  own  bed.  He  shook  me  very  heartily  by  the  hand 
at  parting,  and  discovered  a  great  air  of  satisfaction  in  his  looks, 
that  he  had  met  with  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  parts,  and 
left  me  a  much  wiser  man  than  he  found  me. 


ON    DEDICATIONS 


ON    EPIC    POETRY 


BY 


ALEXANDER    POPE 


ALEXANDER    POPE 

1688 — 1744 

Alexander  Pope  was  born  in  London  in  1688.  He  was  the  son  of 
a  linen-draper  who  had  made  some  fortune  in  that  trade.  In  childhood 
he  was  noted  for  the  sweetness  and  gentleness  of  his  temper — qualities 
which  certainly  did  not  distinguish  his  later  years — for  the  beauty  of 
his  voice,  and  for  his  manual  dexterity  in  writing.  At  eight  years  of 
age  he  began  the  study  of  Latin  and  Greek.  He  was  next  sent  to 
a  Roman  Catholic  seminary  at  Twyford,  whence  he  was  removed 
for  a  lampoon — one  of  his  first  efforts  in  poetry — on  his  master.  In 
1700,  when  twelve  years  old,  he  retired  with  his  father,  who,  like 
other  Romanists  of  the  time,  was  attached  to  the  fortunes  of  James 
II,  to  Binfield,  in  Berkshire.  Here,  at  this  early  age,  he  determined 
to  become  a  poet.  To  indulge  this  passion,  he  left  no  calling  or  pro- 
fession, as  so  many  have  done.  He  was  invariably  and  solely  a  poet 
from  the  beginning  of  his  life  to  its  end.  His  "  Ode  to  Solitude  "  was 
written  when  he  was  twelve,  the  "  Pastorals "  at  sixteen,  and  the 
"  Essay  on  Criticism  "  at  twenty.  With  the  money  received  for  the 
first  books  of  his  translation  of  the  "  Iliad  "  he  purchased  the  villa  at 
Twickenham,  which  has  ever  since  been  associated  with  his  name. 
Here  and  in  London  he  lived  until  the  end  of  his  days,  at  times  the 
foe,  but  oftener  the  associate  and  companion  and  friend  of  the  wits 
and  men  of  letters  of  the  day.  He  suffered  through  life  from  physical 
infirmity  and  constant  ill-health.     He  died  in  1744. 

Pope  was  confessedly  the  most  eminent  poet  of  his  age,  and  he  still 
remains  unequalled  in  his  particular  style  of  poetry.  Less  vigorous 
and  various  than  Dryden,  on  whom  he  modelled  himself,  he  was  a 
greater  artist.  His  life  was  uneventful,  varied  only  by  the  successive 
publication  of  his  poems,  and  by  literary  quarrels  into  which  a  vain 
and  jealous  temperament  was  constantly  leading  him.  Like  Dryden, 
he  modernized  stories  from  Chaucer,  wrote  satires,  and  translated  a 
great  ancient  poet.  But  in  his  satires  (the  "  Dunciad  "  excepted)  he 
is  more  didactic  than  Dryden ;  and  in  his  "  Moral  Epistles,"  and  still 
more  in  his  "  Essay  on  Man,"  he  aims  at  the  character  of  a  philosophical 
writer.  His  translation  of  Homer,  though  utterly  unlike  the  Greek 
in  its  general  features,  and  far  from  an  accurate  representation  of  it 
in  details,  will  probably  keep  his  name  alive  as  long  as  any  of  his 
original  poems,  brilliant  and  highly  finished  as  these  undoubtedly  are. 
His  prose  writings  consist  chiefly  of  one  or  two  prefaces,  three  or  four 
occasional  papers,  and  a  large  number  of  letters,  which  he  elaborated 
with  great  care,  and  contrived  to  have  published  during  his  own  life- 
time. They  are  marked  by  great  rhetorical  adroitness  and  dexterity; 
but  there  is  an  absence  of  ease  about  them,  even  when  the  style  is  most 
familiar.  Gray,  however,  himself  a  delightful  letter-writer,  said  of  the 
letters,  that  though  not  good  letters,  they  were  better  things;  while 
Cowper,  on  the  other  hand,  thought  him  the  most  disagreeable  maker 
of  epistles  he  ever  met  with.  The  essays  "  On  Dedications "  and 
"  On  Epic  Poetry  "  were  both  contributed  to  "  The  Guardian." 


248 


ON   DEDICATIONS 

It  matters  not  how  false  or  forc'd 
So  the  best  things  be  said  o'  th'  worst, 
It  goes  for  nothing  when  'tis  said, 
Only  the  arrow  's  drawn  to  th'  head. 
Whether  it  be  a  swan  or  goose 
They  level  at :  so  shepherds  use 
To  set  the  same  mark  on  the  hip 
Both  of  their  sound  and  rotten  sheep, 

— "  Hudibras,"  pt.  II.  canto  i.  627. 

THOUGH  most  things  which  are  wrong  in  their  own 
nature  are  at  once  confessed  and  absolved  in  that  single 
word  "  custom  " ;  yet  there  are  some  which,  as  they 
have  a  dangerous  tendency,  a  thinking  man  will  the  less  excuse 
on  that  very  account.  Among  these  I  cannot  but  reckon  the 
common  practice  of  dedications,  which  is  of  so  much  the  worse 
consequence,  as  it  is  generally  used  by  the  people  of  politeness, 
and  whom  a  learned  education  for  the  most  part  ought  to  have 
inspired  with  nobler  and  juster  sentiments.  This  prostitution 
of  praise  is  not  only  a  deceit  upon  the  gross  of  mankind,  who 
take  their  notion  of  characters  from  the  learned ;  but  also  the 
better  sort  must  by  this  means  lose  some  part  at  least  of  that 
desire  of  fame  which  is  the  incentive  to  generous  actions,  when 
they  find  it  promiscuously  bestowed  on  the  meritorious  and  un- 
deserving: nay,  the  author  himself,  let  him  be  supposed  to  have 
ever  so  true  a  value  for  the  patron,  can  find  no  terms  to  express 
it,  but  what  have  been  already  used  and  rendered  suspected  by 
flatterers.  Even  truth  itself  in  a  dedication  is  like  an  honest 
man  in  a  disguise  or  vizor-mask,  and  will  appear  a  cheat  by 
being  dressed  so  like  one.  Though  the  merit  of  the  person  is 
beyond  dispute,  I  see  no  reason  that  because  one  man  is  emi- 
nent, therefore  another  has  a  right  to  be  impertinent,  and  throw 
praises  in  his  face.  'Tis  just  the  reverse  of  the  practice  of  the 
ancient  Romans  when  a  person  was  advanced  to  triumph  for 

249 


2  5©  POPE 

his  services.  As  they  hired  people  to  rail  at  him  in  that  circum- 
stance to  make  him  as  humble  as  they  could,  we  have  fellows  to 
flatter  him,  and  make  him  as  proud  as  they  can.  Supposing  the 
writer  not  to  be  mercenary,  yet  the  great  man  is  not  more  in 
reason  obliged  to  thank  him  for  his  picture  in  a  dedication,  than 
to  thank  a  painter  for  that  on  a  sign-post ;  except  it  be  a  less  in- 
jury to  touch  the  most  sacred  part  of  him,  his  character,  than 
to  make  free  with  his  countenance  only.  I  should  think  noth- 
ing justified  me  in  this  point  but  the  patron's  permission  before- 
hand, that  I  should  draw  him  as  like  as  I  could ;  whereas  most 
authors  proceed  in  this  affair  just  as  a  dauber  I  have  heard  of, 
who,  not  being  able  to  draw  portraits  after  the  life,  was  used  to 
paint  faces  at  random,  and  look  out  afterwards  for  people  whom 
he  might  persuade  to  be  like  them.  To  express  my  notion  of 
the  thing  in  a  word :  to  say  more  to  a  man  than  one  thinks,  with 
a  prospect  of  interest,  is  dishonest;  and  without  it,  foolish.* 
And  whoever  has  had  success  in  such  an  undertaking,  must  of 
necessity  at  once  think  himself  in  his  heart  a  knave  for  having 
done  it,  and  his  patron  a  fool  for  having  believed  it. 

I  have  sometimes  been  entertained  with  considering  dedica- 
tions in  no  very  common  light.  By  observing  what  qualities 
our  writers  think  it  will  be  most  pleasing  to  others  to  compli- 
ment them  with,  one  may  form  some  judgment  which  are  most 
so  to  themselves ;  and  in  consequence,  what  sort  of  people  they 
are.  Without  this  view  one  can  read  very  few  dedications  but 
will  give  us  cause  to  wonder  how  such  things  came  to  be  said  at 
all,  or  how  they  were  said  to  such  persons?  I  have  known  a 
hero  complimented  upon  the  decent  majesty  and  state  he  as- 
sumed after  victory,  and  a  nobleman  of  a  different  character  ap- 
plauded for  his  condescension  to  inferiors.  This  would  have 
seemed  very  strange  to  me,  but  that  I  happened  to  know  the 
authors.  He  who  made  the  first  compliment  was  a  lofty  gen- 
tleman, whose  air  and  gait  discovered  when  he  had  published  a 
new  book ;  and  the  other  tippled  every  night  with  the  fellows 
who  labored  at  the  press  while  his  own  writings  were  working 
off.  It  is  observable  of  the  female  poets,  and  ladies  dedicatory, 
that  here  (as  elsewhere)  they  far  exceed  us  in  any  strain  or  rant. 
As  beauty  is  the  thing  that  sex  are  piqued  upon,  they  speak  of 
it  generally  in  a  more  elevated  style  than  is  used  by  the  men. 
They  adore  in  the  same  manner  as  they  would  be  adored.    So 


ON  DEDICATIONS  251 

when  the  authoress  of  a  famous  modern  romance  begs  a  young 
nobleman's  permission  to  pay  him  her  "  kneeUng  adorations," 
I  am  far  from  censuring  the  expression,  as  some  critics  would 
do,  as  deficient  in  grammar  or  sense ;  but  I  reflect,  that  adora- 
tions paid  in  that  posture  are  what  a  lady  might  expect  herself, 
and  my  wonder  immediately  ceases.  These,  when  they  flatter 
most,  do  but  as  they  would  be  done  unto :  for,  as  none  are  so 
much  concerned  at  being  injured  by  calumnies  as  they  who  are 
readiest  to  cast  them  upon  their  neighbors,  so  it  is  certain  none 
are  so  guilty  of  flattery  to  others  as  those  who  most  ardently  de- 
sire it  themselves. 

What  led  me  into  these  thoughts  was  a  dedication  I  happened 
upon  this  morning.  The  reader  must  understand  that  I  treat 
the  least  instances  or  remains  of  ingenuity  with  respect,  in  what 
places  soever  found,  or  under  whatever  circumstances  of  disad- 
vantage. From  this  love  to  letters  1  have  been  so  happy  in  my 
searches  after  knowledge,  that  I  have  found  unvalued  reposi- 
tories of  learning  in  the  lining  of  bandboxes.  I  look  upon  these 
pasteboard  edifices,  adorned  with  the  fragments  of  the  ingen- 
ious, with  the  same  veneration  as  antiquaries  upon  ruined  build- 
ings, whose  walls  preserve  divers  inscriptions  and  names,  which 
are  nowhere  else  to  be  found  in  the  world.  This  morning,  when 
one  of  the  Lady  Lizard's  daughters  was  looking  over  some 
hoods  and  ribands,  brought  by  her  tire-woman,  with  great  care 
and  diligence,  I  employed  no  less  in  examining  the  box  which 
contained  them ;  it  was  lined  with  certain  scenes  of  a  tragedy, 
written  (as  appeared  by  part  of  the  title  there  extant)  by  one  of 
the  fair  sex.  What  was  most  legible  was  the  dedication ;  which, 
by  reason  of  the  largeness  of  the  characters,  was  least  defaced  by 
those  gothic  ornaments  of  flourishes  and  foliage,  wherewith  the 
compilers  of  these  sort  of  structures  do  often  industriously  ob- 
scure the  works  of  the  learned.  As  much  of  it  as  I  could  read 
with  any  ease,  I  shall  communicate  to  the  reader  as  follows : 

"  Though  it  is  a  kind  of  profanation  to  approach  your  grace 
with  so  poor  an  offering,  yet  when  I  reflect  how  acceptable  a 
sacrifice  of  first-fruits  was  to  heaven,  in  the  earliest  and  purest 
ages  of  religion,  that  they  were  honored  with  solemn  feasts,  and 
consecrated  to  altars  by  a  divine  command,  .  .  .  upon  that 
consideration,  as  an  argument  of  particular  zeal,  I  dedicate, 
...    It  is  impossible  to  behold  you  without  adoring;   yet. 


852  POPE 

dazzled  and  awed  by  the  glory  that  surrounds  you,  men  feel  a 
sacred  power  that  refines  their  flames,  and  renders  them  pure 
as  those  we  ought  to  offer  to  the  Deity.  ,  .  .  The  shrine  is 
worthy  the  divinity  that  inhabits  it.  In  your  grace  we  see  what 
woman  was  before  she  fell,  how  nearly  allied  to  the  purity  and 
perfection  of  angels.  And  We  Adore  and  Bless  the  Glorious 
Work." 

Undoubtedly  these  and  other  periods  of  this  most  pious  dedi- 
cation could  not  but  convince  the  duchess  of  what  the  eloquent 
authoress  assures  her  at  the  end,  that  she  was  her  servant  with 
most  ardent  devotion.  I  think  this  a  pattern  of  a  new  sort  of 
style,  not  yet  taken  notice  of  by  the  critics,  which  is  above  the 
sublime,  and  may  be  called  the  celestial ;  that  is,  when  the  most 
sacred  phrases  appropriated  to  the  honor  of  the  Deity  are  ap- 
plied to  a  mortal  of  good  quality.  As  I  am  naturally  emulous, 
I  cannot  but  endeavor,  in  imitation  of  this  lady,  to  be  the  in- 
ventor, or,  at  least,  the  first  producer  of  a  kind  of  dedication, 
very  different  from  hers  and  most  others,  since  it  has  not  a  word 
but  what  the  author  religiously  thinks  in  it.  It  may  serve  for 
almost  any  book,  either  prose  or  verse,  that  has  been,  is,  or  shall 
be  published,  and  might  run  in  this  manner : 

THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIMSELF. 
"  Most  Honored  Sir  : 

"  These  labors,  upon  many  considerations,  so  properly  belong 
to  none  as  to  you.  First,  as  it  was  your  most  earnest  desire 
alone  that  could  prevail  upon  me  to  make  them  public.  Then 
as  I  am  secure  (from  that  constant  indulgence  you  have  ever 
shown  to  all  which  is  mine)  that  no  man  will  so  readily  take 
them  into  protection,  or  so  zealously  defend  them.  Moreover, 
there  is  none  can  so  soon  discover  the  beauties ;  and  there  are 
some  parts  which,  it  is  possible,  few  besides  yourself  are  capable 
of  understanding.  Sir,  the  honor,  affection,  and  value  I  have 
for  you  are  beyond  expression  ;  as  great,  I  am  sure,  or  greater, 
than  any  man  else  can  bear  you.  As  for  any  defects  which 
others  may  pretend  to  discover  in  you,  I  do  faithfully  declare  I 
was  never  able  to  perceive  them ;  and  doubt  not  but  those  per- 
sons are  actuated  purely  by  a  spirit  of  malice  or  envy,  the  in- 
separable attendants  on  shining  merit  and  parts,  such  as  I  have 
always  esteemed  yours  to  be.    It  may  perhaps  be  looked  upon 


ON   DEDICATIONS  253 

as  a  kind  of  violence  to  modesty,  to  say  this  to  you  in  public ; 
but  you  may  believe  me  it  is  no  more  than  I  have  a  thousand 
times  thought  of  you  in  private.  Might  I  follow  the  impulse  of 
my  soul,  there  is  no  subject  I  could  launch  into  with  more  pleas- 
ure than  your  panegyric.  But,  since  something  is  due  to  mod- 
esty, let  me  conclude  by  telling  you,  that  there  is  nothing  so 
much  I  desire  as  to  know  you  more  thoroughly  than  I  have  yet 
the  happiness  of  doing.  I  may  then  hope  to  be  capable  to  do 
you  some  real  service ;  but  till  then  can  only  assure  you,  that 
I  shall  continue  to  be,  as  I  am  more  than  any  man  alive,  Dear- 
est Sir,  your  affectionate  friend,  and  the  greatest  of  your  ad- 
mirers." 


ON  EPIC  POETRY 

Doceho 
Unde  parentur  opes;  quid  alat  formetque  poetam. 

— Horace,  "  Ars  Poetica,"  3061 

I  will  teach  to  write, 
Tell  what  the  duty  of  a  poet  is, 
Wherein  his  wealth  and  ornament  consist, 
And  how  he  may  be  form'd  and  how  improv'd. — Roscommon. 

IT  is  no  small  pleasure  to  me,  who  am  zealous  in  the  inter- 
ests of  learning,  to  think  I  may  have  the  honor  of  leading 
the  town  into  a  very  new  and  uncommon  road  of  criticism. 
As  that  kind  of  literature  is  at  present  carried  on,  it  consists 
only  in  a  knowledge  of  mechanic  rules  which  contribute  to  the 
structure  of  different  sorts  of  poetry ;  as  the  receipts  of  good 
housewives  do  to  the  making  puddings  of  flour,  oranges,  plums, 
or  any  other  ingredients.  It  would,  methinks,  make  these  my 
instructions  more  easily  intelligible  to  ordinary  readers,  if  I 
discoursed  of  these  matters  in  the  style  in  which  ladies  learned 
in  economies  dictate  to  their  pupils  for  the  improvement  of  the 
kitchen  and  larder. 

I  shall  begin  with  epic  poetry,  because  the  critics  agree  it  is 
the  greatest  work  human  nature  is  capable  of.  I  know  the 
French  have  already  laid  down  many  mechanical  rules  for  com- 
positions of  this  sort,  but  at  the  same  time  they  cut  off  almost  all 
undertakers  from  the  possibility  of  ever  performing  them  ;  for 
the  first  qualification  they  unanimously  require  in  a  poet,  is  a 
genius.  I  shall  here  endeavor  (for  the  benefit  of  my  country- 
men) to  make  it  manifest,  that  epic  poems  may  be  made  "  with- 
out a  genius,"  nay,  without  learning  or  much  reading.  This 
must  necessarily  be  of  great  use  to  all  those  poets  who  confess 
they  never  read,  and  of  whom  the  world  is  convinced  they  never 
learn.  What  Moliere  observes  of  making  a  dinner,  that  any 
man  can  do  it  with  money,  and  if  a  professed  cook  cannot  with- 

255 


256  POPE 

out,  he  has  his  art  for  nothing ;  the  same  may  be  said  of  mak- 
ing a  poem,  it  is  easily  brought  by  him  that  has  a  genius,  but 
the  skill  hes  in  doing  it  without  one.  In  pursuance  of  this  end, 
I  shall  present  the  reader  with  a  plain  and  certain  receipt,  by 
which  even  sonneteers  and  ladies  may  be  qualified  for  this  grand 
performance. 

I  know  it  will  be  objected  that  one  of  the  chief  qualifications 
of  an  epic  poet  is  to  be  knowing  in  all  arts  and  sciences.  But 
this  ought  not  to  discourage  those  that  have  no  learning,  as  long 
as  indexes  and  dictionaries  may  be  had,  which  are  the  com- 
pendium of  all  knowledge.  Besides,  since  it  is  an  established 
rule  that  none  of  the  terms  of  those  arts  and  sciences  are  to  be 
made  use  of,  one  may  venture  to  affirm,  our  poet  cannot  im- 
pertinently ofifend  in  this  point.  The  learning  which  will  be 
more  particularly  necessary  to  him,  is  the  ancient  geography  of 
towns,  mountains,  and  rivers :  for  this  let  him  take  Cluverius,* 
value  fourpence. 

Another  quality  required  is  a  complete  skill  in  languages. 
To  this  I  answer,  that  it  is  notorious  persons  of  no  genius  have 
been  oftentimes  great  linguists.  To  instance  in  the  Greek,  of 
which  there  are  two  sorts;  the  original  Greek  and  that  from 
which  our  modern  authors  translate.  I  should  be  unwilling 
to  promise  impossibilities,  but  modestly  speaking,  this  may  be 
learned  in  about  an  hour's  time  with  ease.  I  have  known  one, 
who  became  a  sudden  professor  of  Greek  immediately  upon 
application  of  the  left-hand  page  of  the  Cambridge  Homer  ^ 
to  his  eye.  It  is  in  these  days  with  authors  as  with  other 
men,  the  well-bred  are  familiarly  acquainted  with  them  at  first 
sight;  and  as  it  is  sufficient  for  a  good  general  to  have  sur- 
veyed the  ground  he  is  to  conquer,  so  it  is  enough  for  a  good 
poet  to  have  seen  the  author  he  is  to  be  master  of.  But  to 
proceed  to  the  purpose  of  this  paper. 

'  The   allusion    is    to    the    "  Germania        called    epoch-making   in    the   history  of 
Antiqua  "  and  "  Italia    Antiqua  "  (1624)        ancient  geography. 

of    Cluverius,    works   which    have    been  ^  The  editions  of  the  time  had  an  Eng" 

lish  version  on  the  left-hand  pagei. 


ON   EPIC   POETRY  257 

A  RECEIPT  TO   MAKE   AN   EPIC   POEM 
For  the  Fable 

Take  out  of  any  old  poem,  history  book,  romance,  or  legend 
(for  instance,  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  or  Don  Behanis  ^  of 
Greece),  those  parts  of  story  which  afford  most  scope  for  long 
descriptions.  Put  these  pieces  together,  and  throw  all  the  ad- 
ventures you  fancy  into  one  tale.  Then  take  a  hero  whom  you 
nmy  choose  for  the  sound  of  his  name,  and  put  him  into  the 
midst  of  these  adventures.  There  let  him  work  for  twelve 
books;  at  the  end  of  which  you  may  take  him  out  ready  pre- 
pared to  conquer,  or  to  marry ;  it  being  necessary  that  the  con- 
clusion of  an  epic  poem  be  fortunate. 

To  make  an  Episode. — Take  any  remaining  adventure  of 
your  former  collection,  in  which  you  could  no  way  involve  your 
hero;  or  any  unfortunate  accident  that  was  too  good  to  be 
thrown  away ;  and  it  will  be  of  use  applied  to  any  other  person, 
who  may  be  lost  and  evaporate  in  the  course  of  the  work,  with- 
out the  least  damage  to  the  composition. 

For  the  Moral  and  Allegory. — These  you  may  extract  out 
of  the  fable  afterwards,  at  your  leisure.  Be  sure  you  strain 
them  sufficiently. 

For  the  Manners 

For  those  of  the  hero,  take  all  the  best  qualities  you  can  find 
in  all  the  celebrated  heroes  of  antiquity;  if  they  will  not  be 
reduced  to  a  consistency,  lay  them  all  on  a  heap  upon  him. 
But  be  sure  they  are  qualities  which  your  patron  would  be 
thought  to  have ;  and,  to  prevent  any  mistake  which  the  world 
may  be  subject  to,  select  from  the  alphabet  those  capital  letters 
that  compose  his  name,  and  set  them  at  the  head  of  a  dedication 
before  your  poem.  However,  do  not  absolutely  observe  the 
exact  quantity  of  these  virtues,  it  not  being  determined  whether 
or  no  it  be  necessary  for  the  hero  of  the  poem  to  be  an  honest 
man.  For  the  under  characters,  gather  them  from  Homer  and 
Vergil,  and  change  the  names  as  occasion  serves. 

» "  The  Famous  and  Delectable   His-  mances  of  chivalry,  and  was  reprieved 

tory   of   Don    Belianis   of   Greece  "   was  by  the  curate  in  "  Don  Quixote,"  when 

translated  into  English  in  isp8.    It  was  the  barber  made  a  bonfire  of  the  Don's 

one  of  the  most  celebrated  Spanish  ro-  library.  -.^ yol    17 


«S8  POPE 

For  the  Machines 

Take  of  deities,  male  and  female,  as  many  as  you  can  use. 
Separate  them  into  two  equal  parts,  and  keep  Jupiter  in  the 
middle.  Let  Juno  put  him  in  a  ferment,  and  Venus  mollify 
him.  Remember  on  all  occasions  to  make  use  of  volatile  Mer- 
cury. If  you  have  need  of  devils,  draw  them  out  of  Milton's 
"  Paradise,"  and  extract  your  spirits  from  Tasso.  The  use 
of  these  machines  is  evident ;  and  since  no  epic  poem  can  pos- 
sibly subsist  without  them,  the  wisest  way  is  to  reserve  them 
for  your  greatest  necessities.  When  you  cannot  extricate  your 
hero  by  any  human  means,  or  yourself  by  your  own  wits,  seek 
relief  from  heaven,  and  the  gods  will  do  your  business  very 
readily.  This  is  according  to  the  direct  prescription  of  Horace 
in  his  "  Art  of  Poetry  " : 

"  Nee  deus  intersit,  nisi  dignus  vindiee  Nodus 
Incident." 

Never  to  presume  to  make  a  god  appear, 

But  for  a  business  worthy  of  a  god. — Roscommon. 

That  is  to  say,  a  poet  should  never  call  upon  the  gods  for  their 
assistance  but  when  he  is  in  great  perplexity. 

For  the  Descriptions 

For  a  Tempest. — Take  Eurus,  Zephyr,  Auster,  and  Boreas, 
and  cast  them  together  in  one  verse.  Add  to  these  of  rain, 
lightning,  and  of  thunder  (the  loudest  you  can)  quantum  suf- 
iicit.  Mix  your  clouds  and  billows  well  together  until  they 
foam,  and  thicken  your  description  here  and  there  with  a  quick- 
sand. Brew  your  tempest  well  in  your  head,  before  you  set  a 
blowing. 

For  a  Battle. — Pick  a  large  quantity  of  images  and  descrip- 
tions from  Homer's  "  Iliad,"  with  a  spice  or  two  of  Vergil,  and 
if  there  remain  any  overplus  you  may  lay  them  by  for  a 
skirmish.  Season  it  well  with  similes,  and  it  will  make  an 
excellent  battle. 

For  Burning  a  Town. — If  such  a  description  be  necessary, 
because  it  is  certain  there  is  one  in  Vergil,  Old  Troy  is  ready 
burnt  to  your  hands.     But  if  you  fear  that  would  be  thought 


ON   EPIC.  POETRY  259 

Borrowed,  a  chapter  or  two  of  the  "  Theory  of  the  Conflagra- 
tion," *  well  circumstanced,  and  done  into  verse,  will  be  a 
good  succedaneum. 

As  for  Similes  and  Metaphors,  they  may  be  found  all  over 
the  creation;  the  most  ignorant  may  gather  them,  but  the 
danger  is  in  applying  them.  For  this,  advise  with  your  book- 
seller. 

For  the  Language 

(I  mean  the  diction.)  Here  it  will  do  well  to  be  an  imitator 
of  Milton,  for  you  will  find  it  easier  to  imitate  him  in  this 
than  anything  else.  Hebraisms  and  Grecisms  are  to  be  found 
in  him,  without  the  trouble  of  learning  the  languages.  I  knew 
a  painter,  who  (like  our  poet)  had  no  genius,  made  his  daub- 
ings  to  be  thought  originals  by  setting  them  in  the  smoke. 
You  may  in  the  sam.e  manner  give  the  venerable  air  of  antiquity 
to  your  piece,  by  darkening  it  up  and  down  with  Old  English. 
With  this  you  may  be  easily  furnished  upon  any  occasion  by 
the  dictionary  commonly  printed  at  the  end  of  Chaucer. 

I  must  not  conclude,  without  cautioning  all  writers  without 
genius  in  one  material  point,  which  is  never  to  be  afraid  of 
having  too  much  fire  in  their  works.  I  should  advise  rather 
to  take  their  warmest  thoughts,  and  spread  them  abroad  upon 
paper;   for  they  are  observed  to  cool  before  they  are  read. 

*  A  reference  to  the  "  Sacred  Theory  of  the  Earth,"  by  Thomas  Burnet,  D.D.. 
1689. 


ON    PASSION 

BY 

PHILIP    DORMER   STANHOP 

Earl  of  Chesterfield 


PHILIP    DORMER    STANHOPE,    EARL    OF    CHESTERFIELD 

1694— 1773 

Philip  Dormer  Stanhope,  one  of  the  most  shining  characters  of  his 
age,  was  born  in  1694.  He  lost  his  mother  early,  and  being  neglected 
by  his  father,  was  brought  up  chiefly  under  the  care  of  his  grand- 
mother. He  was  sent  when  eighteen  years  of  age  to  Cambridge,  and 
appears  even  there  to  have  devoted  much  attention  to  the  formation  of 
style,  of  which  he  afterwards  became  so  great  a  master.  On  leaving 
the  university  he  made  the  customary  tour  of  Europe.  The  converse 
of  foreign  courts  stimulated  his  taste  for  the  courtesies  of  polite  life 
and  for  the  attainment  of  that  knowledge  of  the  world  which  he  pur- 
sued so  steadfastly  through  later  years.  The  extensive  possession  of 
this  knowledge  became  his  chief  characteristic  in  after  life,  and  its 
display  is  the  most  notable  feature  of  his  writings.  He  entered  Parlia- 
ment as  member  for  St.  Germains  before  he  was  of  age,  but  took 
little  part  in  public  affairs  till  after  the  death  of  his  father  in  1726, 
when  he  became  a  member  of  the  Upper  House.  His  first  public  em- 
ployment was  an  embassy  to  Holland,  in  1728,  in  which  he  displayed 
great  skill,  diplomacy  being  peculiarly  suited  to  his  tastes  and  talents 
from  his  conciliatory  temper  and  manners,  his  quick  insight  into  char- 
acter, and  his  knowledge  of  foreign  languages  and  history.  A  second 
embassy  to  the  same  country  confirmed  his  reputation  as  a  statesman. 
In  1745,  at  the  moment  of  the  Rebellion  in  Scotland,  Chesterfield  be- 
came Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and  entered  on  the  most  brilliant 
and  useful  part  of  his  career.  By  impartial  justice,  by  firmness,  modera- 
tion, and  clemency,  he  kept  that  country  tranquil,  and  his  administration 
deserves  the  praise  due  to  a  humane,  liberal,  and  far-sighted  policy. 
At  the  close  of  1746  he  became  Secretary  of  State,  and  in  1748  he  finally 
withdrew  from  official  life.  In  1751,  Chesterfield,  with  the  aid  of  Lord 
Macclesfield  and  of  the  astronomer  Bradley,  carried  out,  in  spite  of 
popular  prejudice,  the  reformation  of  the  calendar.  After  this,  and 
till  his  death,  an  increasing  deafness  excluded  Lord  Chesterfield  from 
taking  part  in  public  life.  He  died  in  1773,  "  satiated,"  as  he  himself 
said,  "  with  the  pompous  follies  of  this  life." 

Lord  Chesterfield  left  a  number  of  miscellaneous  pieces  which  have 
been  collected  from  the  periodicals  in  which  for  the  most  part  they 
appeared.  One  of  his  essays  from  the  "  World  "  is  given  here.  As  an 
author,  however,  says  Lord  Mahon,  Chesterfield's  character  must  stand 
or  fall  by  the  celebrated  "  Letters  "  addressed  to  his  natural  son,  Philip 
Stanhope.  Viewed  as  compositions,  these  letters  appear  almost  un- 
rivalled as  models  for  a  .serious  epistolary  style ;  clear,  elegant,  and 
terse,  never  straining  at  effect,  and  yet  never  hurried  into  carelessness. 
They  have  incurred  just  reprehension  on  two  grounds — that  they  insist 
too  much  on  manners  and  graces  instead  of  on  more  solid  acquire- 
ments, and  that  some  of  their  maxims  are  repugnant  to  good  morals; 
even  when  right  in  themselves,  the  maxims  laid  down  seldom  rest  on 
higher  motives  than  expediency,  reputation,  or  personal  advantage. 


262 


ON   PASSION 

IT  is  a  vulgar  notion,  and  worthy  of  the  vulgar,  for  it  is  both 
false  and  absurd,  that  passionate  people  are  the  best  nat- 
ured  people  in  the  world.  "  They  are  a  Httle  hasty,  it  is 
true ;  a  trifle  will  put  them  in  a  fury  ;  and  while  they  are  in  that 
fury,  they  neither  know  nor  care  what  they  say  or  do :  but  then, 
as  soon  as  it  is  over,  they  are  extremely  sorry  and  penitent  for 
any  injury  or  mischief  they  did."  This  panegyric  on  these 
choleric  good-natured  people,  when  examined  and  simplified, 
amounts  in  plain  common-sense  and  English  to  this :  that  they 
are  good-natured  when  they  are  not  ill-natured  ;  and  that  when 
in  their  fits  of  rage  they  have  said  or  done  things  that  have 
brought  them  to  the  jail  or  the  gallows,  they  are  extremely  sorry 
for  it.  It  is  indeed  highly  probable  that  they  are ;  but  where 
is  the  reparation  to  those  whose  reputations,  limbs,  or  lives  they 
have  either  wounded  or  destroyed?  This  concern  comes  too 
late,  and  is  only  for  themselves.  Self-love  was  the  cause  of  the 
injury,  and  is  the  only  motive  of  the  repentance. 

Had  these  furious  people  real  good-nature  their  first  offence 
would  be  their  last,  and  they  would  resolve  at  all  events  never  to 
relapse.  The  moment  they  felt  their  choler  rising,  they  would 
enjoin  themselves  an  absolute  silence  and  inaction,  and  by  that 
sudden  check  rather  expose  themselves  to  a  momentary  ridicule 
(which,  by  the  way,  would  be  followed  by  universal  applause), 
than  run  the  least  risk  of  being  irreparably  mischievous. 

I  know  it  is  said  in  their  behalf,  that  this  impulse  to  wrath  is 
constitutionally  so  sudden  and  so  strong  that  they  cannot  stifle 
it,  even  in  its  birth ;  but  experience  shows  us,  that  this  allega- 
tion is  notoriously  false ;  for  we  daily  observe  that  these  stormy 
persons  both  can  and  do  lay  those  gusts  of  passion,  when  awed 
by  respect,  restrained  by  interest,  or  intimidated  by  fear.  The 
most  outrageous  furioso  does  not  give  loose  to  his  anger  in 
presence  of  his  sovereign,  or  his  mistress;  nor  the  expectant 

263 


2  04  STANHOPE 

heir  in  presence  of  the  peevish  dotard  from  whom  he  hopes  for 
an  inheritance.  The  soliciting  courtier,  though  perhaps  under 
the  strongest  provocations,  from  unjust  delays  and  broken 
promises,  calmly  swallows  his  unavailing  wrath,  disguises  it 
even  under  smiles,  and  gently  waits  for  more  favorable  mo- 
ments ;  nor  does  the  criminal  fly  in  a  passion  at  his  judge  or  his 
jury. 

There  is  then  but  one  solid  excuse  to  be  alleged  in  favor  of 
these  people ;  and  if  they  will  frankly  urge  it,  I  will  candidly  ad- 
mit it,  because  it  points  out  its  own  remedy.  I  mean,  let  them 
fairly  confess  themselves  mad,  as  they  most  unquestionably 
are ;  for  what  plea  can  those  that  are  frantic  ten  times  a  day 
bring  against  shaving,  bleeding,  and  a  dark  room,  when  so 
many  much  more  harmless  madmen  are  confined  in  their  cells 
at  Bedlam  for  being  mad  only  once  in  a  moon  ?  Nay,  I  have 
been  assured  by  the  late  ingenious  Doctor  Monro,  that  such  of 
his  patients  who  were  really  of  a  good-natured  disposition^  and 
who  in  their  lucid  intervals  were  allowed  the  liberty  of  walking 
about  the  hospital,  would  frequently,  when  they  found  the 
previous  symptoms  of  their  returning  madness,  voluntarily  ap- 
ply for  confinement,  conscious  of  the  mischief  which  they  might 
possibly  do  if  at  liberty.  If  those  who  pretend  not  to  be  mad, 
but  who  really  are  so,  had  the  same  fund  of  good-nature,  they 
would  make  the  same  application  to  their  friends,  if  they  have 
any. 

There  is  in  the  Menagiana,*  a  very  pretty  story  of  one  of 
these  angry  gentlemen,  which  sets  their  extravagancy  in  a  very 
ridiculous  light. 

Two  gentlemen  were  riding  together,  one  of  whom,  who  was 
a  choleric  one,  happened  to  be  mounted  on  a  high-mettled 
horse.  The  horse  grew  a  little  troublesome,  at  which  the  rider 
grew  very  angry,  and  whipped  and  spurred  him  with  great  fury ; 
to  which  the  horse,  almost  as  wrong-headed  as  his  master,  re- 
plied with  kicking  and  plunging.  The  companion,  concerned 
for  the  danger,  and  ashamed  of  the  folly  of  his  friend,  said  to 
him  coolly,  "  Be  quiet,  be  quiet,  and  show  yourself  the  wiser  of 
the  two." 

This  sort  of  madness,  for  I  will  call  it  by  no  other  name,  flows 

*  One  of  the  many  popular  books  of       Menage,    poet    and    grammarian,    wh<» 
"  ana  "  produced  in  France  in  the   sev-        died  in  Paris,   1692. 
enteenth   century,   and   so   named   from 


ON   PASSION  265 

from  various  causes,  of  which  I  shall  now  enumerate  the  most 
general. 

Light  unballasted  heads  are  very  apt  to  be  overset  by  every 
gust,  or  even  breeze  of  passion ;  they  appreciate  things  wrong, 
and  think  everything  of  importance,  but  what  really  is  so; 
hence  those  frequent  and  sudden  transitions  from  silly  joy  to 
sillier  anger,  according  as  the  present  silly  humor  is  gratified  or 
thwarted.  This  is  the  never-failing  characteristic  of  the  unedu- 
cated vulgar,  who  often  in  the  same  half-hour  fight  with  fury, 
and  shake  hands  with  affection.  Such  heads  give  themselves 
no  time  to  reason ;  and  if  you  attempt  to  reason  with  them  they 
think  you  rally  them,  and  resent  the  affront.  They  are,  in  short, 
overgrown  children,  and  continue  so  in  the  most  advanced  age. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  insinuate,  what  some  ill-bred  authors 
have  bluntly  asserted,  that  this  is  in  general  the  case  of  the 
fairest  part  of  our  species,  whose  great  vivacity  does  not  always 
allow  them  time  to  reason  consequentially,  but  hurries  them 
into  testiness  upon  the  least  opposition  to  their  will ;  but  at  the 
same  time,  with  all  the  partiality  which  I  have  for  them,  and 
nobody  can  have  more  than  I  have,  I  must  confess  that,  in  all 
their  debates,  I  have  much  more  admired  the  copiousness  of 
their  rhetoric  than  the  conclusiveness  of  their  logic. 

People  of  strong  animal  spirits,  warm  constitutions,  and  a 
cold  genius  (a  most  unfortunate  and  ridiculous,  though  com- 
mon compound)  are  most  irascible  animals,  and  very  dangerous 
in  their  wrath.  They  are  active,  puzzling,  blundering,  and  petu- 
lantly enterprising  and  persevering.  They  are  impatient  of  the 
least  contradiction,  having  neither  arguments  nor  words  to 
reply  with ;  and  the  animal  part  of  their  composition  bursts  out 
into  furious  explosions,  which  have  often  mischievous  conse- 
quences. Nothing  is  too  outrageous  or  criminal  for  them  to  say 
or  do  in  these  fits  ;  but  as  the  beginning  of  their  frenzy  is  easily 
discoverable  by  their  glaring  eyes,  inflamed  countenances,  and 
rapid  motions,  the  company,  as  conservators  of  the  peace 
(which,  by  the  way,  every  man  is,  till  the  authority  of  a  magis- 
trate can  be  produced),  should  forcibly  seize  these  madmen,  and 
confine  them,  in  the  mean  time,  in  some  dark  closet,  vault,  or 
coal-hole. 

Men  of  nice  honor,  without  one  grain  of  common  honesty 
(for  such  there  are),  are  wonderfully  combustible.    The  honor- 


266  STANHOPE 

able  is  to  support  and  protect  the  dishonest  part  of  their  char- 
acter. The  consciousness  of  their  guilt  makes  them  both  sore 
and  jealous. 

There  is  another  very  irascible  sort  of  human  animals,  whose 
madness  proceeds  from  pride.  These  are  generally  the  peo- 
ple, who,  having  just  fortunes  sufficient  to  live  idle  and  useless 
to  society,  create  themselves  gentlemen,  and  are  scrupulously 
tender  of  the  rank  and  dignity  which  they  have  not.  They  re- 
quire the  more  respect,  from  being  conscious  that  they  have 
no  right  to  any.  They  construe  everything  into  a  slight,  ask  ex- 
planations with  heat,  and  misunderstand  them  with  fury. 
"  Who  are  you  ?  What  are  you  ?  Do  you  know  who  you 
speak  to?  I'll  teach  you  to  be  insolent  to  a  gentleman,"  are 
their  daily  idioms  of  speech,  which  frequently  end  in  assault  and 
battery,  to  the  great  emolument  of  the  Round-house  and  Crown 
office. 

I  have  known  many  young  fellows,  who,  at  their  first  setting 
out  in  the  world,  or  in  the  army,  have  simulated  a  passion  which 
they  did  not  feel,  merely  as  an  indication  of  spirit,  which  word  is 
falsely  looked  upon  as  synonymous  with  courage.  They  dress 
and  look  fierce,  swear  enormously,  and  rage  furiously,  seduced 
by  that  popular  word  "  spirit."  But  I  beg  leave  to  inform  these 
mistaken  young  gentlemen,  whose  error  I  compassionate,  that 
the  true  spirit  of  a  rational  being  consists  in  cool  and  steady 
resolution,  which  can  only  be  the  result  of  reflection  and  virtue. 

I  am  very  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  own  that  there  is  not  a  more 
irritable  part  of  the  species  than  my  brother  authors.  Criticism, 
censure,  or  even  the  slightest  disapprobation  of  their  immortal 
works  excite  their  most  furious  indignation.  It  is  true  indeed 
that  they  express  their  resentment  in  a  manner  less  dangerous, 
both  to  others  and  to  themselves.  Like  incensed  porcupines, 
they  dart  their  quills  at  the  objects  of  their  wrath.  The  wounds 
given  by  these  shafts  are  not  mortal,  and  only  painful  in  propor- 
tion to  the  distance  from  whence  they  fly.  Those  which  are  dis- 
charged (as  by  much  the  greatest  number  are)  from  great 
heights,  such  as  garrets  or  four-pair-of-stairs  rooms,  are  puffed 
away  by  the  wind,  and  never  hit  the  mark  ;  but  those  which  are 
let  off  from  a  first  or  second  floor,  are  apt  to  occasion  a  little 
smarting,  and  sometimes  festering,  especially  if  the  party 
wounded  be  unsound. 


ON   PASSION  267 

Our  great  Creator  has  wisely  given  us  passions  to  rouse  us 
into  action,  and  to  engage  our  gratitude  to  him  by  the  pleasures 
they  procure  us ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  has  kindly  given  us 
reason  sufficient,  if  we  will  but  give  that  reason  fair  play,  to 
control  those  passions ;  and  has  delegated  authority  to  say  to 
them,  as  he  said  to  the  waters,  "  Thus  far  shall  ye  go,  and  no 
farther."  The  angry  man  is  his  own  severest  tormentor;  his 
breast  knows  no  peace,  while  his  raging  passions  are  restrained 
by  no  sense  of  either  religious  or  moral  duties.  What  would 
be  his  case,  if  his  unforgiving  example  (if  I  may  use  such  an  ex- 
pression) were  followed  by  his  all-merciful  Maker,  whose  for- 
giveness he  can  only  hope  for,  in  proportion  as  he  himself  for- 
gives and  loves  his  fellow-creatures  ? 


THE   COMMONWEALTH   OF    LETTERS 


BY 


HENRY    FIELDING 


HENRY   FIELDING 

1707— 1754 

Henry  Fielding  was  born  in  1707,  at  Sharpham  Park,  in  Somerset- 
shire. His  father,  General  Edmund  Fielding,  who  belonged  to  a  younger 
branch  of  the  Denbigh  family,  had  served  under  Marlborough,  and  was 
a  person  of  good  position  in  society,  but  seems  to  have  set  his  son  the 
bad  example  of  extravagance.  Henry  Fielding  was  educated  at  Eton, 
where  he  is  said  to  have  acquired  a  great  familiarity  with  the  Latin 
and  Greek  classics.  He  afterwards  studied  jurisprudence  at  Leyden, 
1  but  was  compelled  to  return  to  England  in  consequence  of  his  father's 
inability  to  support  him  at  that  university.  Finding  himself  at  the  age 
of  twenty  thrown  upon  his  own  resources,  "  with  an  allowance  from 
his  father,"  as  he  said  himself,  which  "  anyone  might  pay  who  could, 
and  with  no  choice  but  to  be  a  hackney  writer  or  a  hackney  coachman," 
he  preferred  the  former  alternative,  and  became  a  dramatic  author. 
None  of  his  farces  or  comedies  obtained,  or  indeed  deserved,  any  con- 
siderable success;  they  can  hardly  be  said  to  contain  any  promise  of 
his  future  excellence.  At  the  age  of  twenty-eight  he  married,  and, 
inheriting  at  the  same  time  a  small  estate,  retired  to  the  country.  Here, 
however,  in  two  years  he  had  completely  ruined  himself  by  a  ludicrous 
extravagance,  and  returned  to  London  to  study  law.  To  maintain 
himself  and  his  family  he  again  wrote  plays,  and  was  besides  concerned 
in  more  than  one  of  the  periodicals  of  the  day.  At  thirty-five  the  de- 
sire of  ridiculing  Richardson's  "  Pamela  "  suggested  to  him  the  com- 
position of  "  Joseph  Andrews,"  and  having  once  found  the  true  bent 
of  his  genius,  he  followed  it  up  with  ardor,  and,  while  still  occupied 
with  periodical  writing  and  with  the  duties  of  a  stipendiary  magistracy, 
he  found  time  for  the  production  of  his  later  and  equally  celebrated 
novels.  But  his  health,  which  had  long  been  declining,  at  last  gave 
way  altogether,  and  in  1754,  as  a  last  chance  for  life,  he  sailed  for 
Lisbon,  but  only  to  die  there  in  the  autumn  of  the  same  year. 

Fielding's  English  is  pure,  simple,  and  unaflFected.  But  his  high 
place  in  English  literature  is  due  not  so  much  to  his  style,  though 
original  and  excellent  in  its  kind,  as  to  his  transcendent  genius  as  a 
novelist;  to  his  wide  human  sympathies,  his  just  conception  and  sharp 
delineation  of  character,  his  humor,  so  copious  as  to  extend  with  un- 
diminished force  over  his  voluminous  writings,  and  the  buoyant  sense 
of  the  enjoyment  of  life  which  he  has  infused  into  pages  composed  not 
unfrequently  under  the  pressure  of  much  physical  suffering.  His 
essay  on  "The  Commonwealth  of  Letters"  first  appeared  in  the 
"  Covent  Garden  Journal."  It  is  characterized  by  his  robust  common 
sense,  his  vigorous,  easy  style,  and  his  good-humored,  racy  wit. 


270 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  OF  LETTERS 

OiiK  ayadbv  iroKvKoipavli],  us  Koipcwos  terra, 
'Eis  Ba(nA.€(/s,  Si  eSwKe  KpSvov  vols  i,yKv\vixiirifo 
iKiyiTTpdv  r'riSh  dtfjuaras,  Xva  a<pt<riv  inficuriKfir). — Homer, 

Here  is  not  allowed 
That  worst  of  tyrants,  an  usurping  crowd. 
To  one  sole  monarch  Jove  commits  the  sway; 
His  are  the  laws,  and  him  let  all  obey. — Pope. 

THOUGH  of  the  three  forms  of  government  acknowl- 
edged in  the  schools  all  have  been  very  warmly  opposed 
and  as  warmly  defended,  yet  in  this  point  the  different 
advocates  will,  I  believe,  very  readily  agree,  that  there  is  not 
one  of  the  three  which  is  not  greatly  to  be  preferred  to  total 
anarchy — a  State  in  which  there  is  no  subordination,  no  lawful 
power,  and  no  settled  government,  but  where  every  man  is  at 
liberty  to  act  in  whatever  manner  it  pleaseth  him  best. 

As  this  is  in  reality  a  most  deplorable  state,  I  have  long  la- 
mented, with  great  anguish  of  heart,  that  it  is  at  present  the  case 
of  a  very  large  body  of  people  in  this  kingdom — an  assertion 
which,  as  it  may  surprise  most  of  my  readers,  I  will  make  haste 
to  explain,  by  declaring  that  I  mean  the  fraternity  of  the  quill, 
that  body  of  men  to  whom  the  public  assign  the  name  of 
authors. 

However  absurd  politicians  may  have  been  pleased  to  repre- 
sent the  iniperium  in  imperio,  it  will  here,  I  doubt  not,  be  found 
on  a  strict  examination  to  be  extremely  necessary,  the  common- 
wealth of  Hterature  being  indeed  totally  distinct  from  the 
greater  commonwealth,  and  no  more  dependent  upon  it  than 
the  kingdom  of  England  is  on  that  of  France.  Of  this  our  leg- 
islature seems  to  have  been  at  all  times  sensible,  as  they  have 
never  attempted  any  provision  for  the  regulation  or  correction 
of  this  body.  In  one  instance,  it  is  true,  there  are  (I  should 
rather,  I  believe,  say  there  were)  some  laws  to  restrain  themj 

271 


272 


FIELDING 


for  writers,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  have  been  formerly  punished 
for  blasphemy  against  God  and  Hbels  against  the  government ; 
nay,  I  have  been  told  that  to  slander  the  reputation  of  private 
jfersons  was  once  thought  unlawful  here  as  well  as  among  the 
Romans,  who,  as  Horace  tells  us,  had  a  severe  law  for  this 
purpose. 

In  promulging  these  laws  (whatever  may  be  the  reason  of 
suffering  them  to  grow  obsolete)  the  State  seems  to  have  acted 
very  wisely,  as  such  kind  of  writings  are  really  of  most  mis- 
chievous consequence  to  the  public ;  but,  alas !  there  are  many 
abuses,  many  horrid  evils,  daily  springing  up  in  the  common- 
wealth of  literature,  which  appear  to  affect  only  that  common- 
wealth, at  least  immediately,  of  which  none  of  the  political  leg- 
islators have  ever  taken  any  notice,  nor  hath  any  civil  court  of 
judicature  ever  pretended  to  any  cognizance  of  them.  Non- 
sense and  dulness  are  no  crimes  in  foro  chili;  no  man  can  be 
questioned  for  bad  verses  in  Westminster  Hall ;  and,  amongst 
the  many  indictments  for  battery,  not  one  can  be  produced  for 
breaking  poor  Priscian's  head,^  though  it  is  done  almost  every 
day. 

But  though  immediately,  as  I  have  said,  thdse  evils  do  not 
affect  the  greater  commonwealth,  yet,  as  they  tend  to  the  utter 
ruin  of  the  lesser,  so  they  have  a  remote  evil  consequence,  even 
on  the  State  itself;  which  seems,  by  having  Idft  them  unpro- 
vided for,  to  have  remitted  them,  for  the  sake  of  convenience, 
to  the  government  of  laws  and  to  the  superintendence  of  magis- 
trates of  this  lesser  commonwealth,  and  never  to  have  foreseen 
or  suspected  that  dreadful  state  of  anarchy  which  at  present  pre- 
vails in  this  lesser  empire — an  empire  which  hath  formerly  made 
so  great  a  figure  in  this  kingdom,  and  that,  indeed,  almost  with- 
in our  own  memories. 

It  may  appear  strange  that  none  of  our  English  historians 
have  spoken  clearly  and  distinctly  of  this  lesser  empire ;  but 
this  may  be  well  accounted  for  when  we  consider  that  all  these 
histories  have  been  written  by  two  sorts  of  persons — that  is  to 
say,  either  politicians  or  lawyers.  Now,  the  former  of  these 
have  had  their  imaginations  so  entirely  filled  with  the  affairs  of 

*  "  To  commit   a   grammatical   error,"        "  And  hold  no  sin  so  deeply  red, 
Priscian  being  a  famous  grammarian  in  As  that  of  breaking  Priscian's  head." 

the  time  of  Justinian.    Cf.  "  Uudibras," 
pt.  II.  can.  2,  I.  22i. 


THE   COMMONWEALTH    OF    LETTERS  273 

the  greater  empire  that  it  is  no  wonder  the  business  of  the 
lesser  should  have  totally  escaped  their  observation.  And  as 
to  the  lawyers,  they  are  well  known  to  have  been  very  little 
acquainted  with  the  commonwealth  of  literature,  and  to  have 
always  acted  and  written  in  defiance  to  its  laws. 

From  these  reasons  it  is  very  difficult  to  fix,  with  certainty, 
the  exact  period  when  this  commonwealth  first  began  among 
us.  Indeed,  if  the  originals  of  all  the  greater  empires  upon 
earth,  and  even  of  our  own,  be  wrapped  in  such  obscurity  that 
they  elude  the  inquiries  of  the  most  diligent  sifters  of  antiquity, 
we  cannot  be  surprised  that  this  fate  should  attend  our  little 
empire,  opposed  as  it  hath  been  by  the  pen  of  the  lawyer,  over- 
looked by  the  eye  of  the  historian,  and  never  once  smelt  aiter 
by  the  nose  of  the  antiquary. 

In  the  earliest  ages  the  literary  state  seems  to  have  been  an 
ecclesiastical  democracy,  for  the  clergy  are  then  said  to  have  had 
all  the  learning  among  them ;  and  the  great  reverence  paid  at 
that  time  to  it  by  the  laity  appears  from  hence,  that  whoever 
could  prove  in  a  court  of  justice  that  he  belonged  to  this  state, 
by  only  reading  a  single  verse  in  the  Testament,  was  vested  with 
the  highest  privileges,  and  might  do  almost  what  he  pleased, 
even  commit  murder  with  impunity.  And  this  privilege  was 
called  the  benefit  of  the  clergy. 

This  commonwealth,  however,  can  scarce  be  said  to  have 
been  in  any  flourishing  state  of  old  time  even  among  the  clergy 
themselves ;  inasmuch  as  we  are  told  that  a  rector  of  a  parish, 
going  to  law  with  his  parishioners  about  paving  the  church, 
quoted  this  authority  from  St.  Peter,  Paveant  illi,  non  paveam 
ego,  which  he  construed  thus :  "  They  are  to  pave  the  church, 
and  not  I."  And  this,  by  a  judge  who  was  likewise  an  ecclesi- 
astic, was  allowed  to  be  very  good  law. 

The  nobility  had  clearlv  no  ancient  connection  with  this  com- 
monwealth, nor  would  submit  to  be  bound  by  any  of  its  laws ; 
witness  that  provision  in  an  old  act  of  Parliament,  "  That  a 
nobleman  shall  be  entitled  to  the  benefit  of  his  clergy  "  (the 
privilege  above  mentioned)  "  even  though  he  cannot  read." 
Nay,  the  whole  body  of  the  laity,  though  they  gave  such  hon- 
ors to  this  commonwealth,  appear  to  have  been  very  few  of  them 
tinder  its  jurisdiction,  as  appears  by  a  law  cited  by  Judge  Rolls 
in  his  "  Abridgment,"  v;ith  the  reason  which  he  gives  for  it : 


274  FIELDING 

"The  command  of  the  sheriff,"  says  this  writer,  "  to  his  officer, 
by  word  of  mouth  and  without  writing,  is  good  ;  for  it  may  be 
that  neither  the  sheriff  nor  his  officer  can  write  or  read." 

But  not  to  dwell  on  these  obscure  times,  when  so  very  little 
authentic  can  be  found  concerning  this  commonwealth,  let  us 
come  at  once  to  the  days  of  Henry  VIII,  when  no  less  a  revo- 
lution happened  in  the  lesser  than  in  the  greater  empire,  for  the 
literary  government  became  absolute,  together  with  the  polit- 
ical, in  the  hands  of  one  and  the  same  monarch,  who  was  him- 
self a  writer,  and  dictated,  not  only  law,  but  common-sense  too, 
to  all  his  people,  suffering  no  one  to  write  or  speak  but  accord- 
ing to  his  will  and  pleasure. 

After  this  king's  demise  the  literary  commonwealth  was 
again  separated  from  the  political,  for  I  do  not  find  that  his  suc- 
cessor on  the  greater  throne  succeeded  him  likewise  in  the  les- 
ser. Nor  did  either  of  the  two  queens,  as  I  can  learn,  pretend  to 
any  authority  in  this  empire,  in  which  the  Salic  law  hath  uni- 
versally prevailed,  for  though  there  have  been  some  consider- 
able subjects  of  the  female  sex  in  the  literary  commonwealth,  I 
never  remember  to  have  read  of  a  queen. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  with  any  great  exactness  what  form  of 
government  was  preserved  in  this  commonwealth  during  the 
reigns  of  Edward  VI,  Queen  Mary,  and  Queen  Elizabeth,  for 
though  there  were  some  great  men  in  those  times,  none  of  them 
seem  to  have  affected  the  throne  of  wit ;  nay,  Shakespeare,  who 
flourished  in  the  latter  end  of  the  last  reign,  and  who  seemed  so 
justly  qualified  to  enjoy  this  crown,  never  thought  of  challeng- 
ing it. 

In  the  reign  of  James  I  the  literary  government  was  an  aris- 
tocracy, for  I  do  not  choose  to  give  it  the  evil  name  of  oligarchy, 
though  it  consisted  only  of  four,  namely,  Master  William  Shake- 
speare, Master  Benjamin  Jonson,  Master  John  Fletcher,  and 
Master  Francis  Beaumont.  This  quadrumvirate,  as  they  intro- 
duced a  new  form  of  government,  thought  proper,  according  to 
Machiavel's  advice,  to  introduce  new  names ;  they  therefore 
called  themselves  "  The  Wits,"  a  name  which  hath  been  affected 
since  by  the  reigning  monarchs  in  this  empire. 

The  last  of  this  quadrumvirate  enjoyed  the  government  alone 
(during  his  life ;  after  which  the  troubles  that  shortly  after  en- 
sued involved  this  lesser  commonwealth  in  all  the  confusion 


THE   COMMONWEALTH   OF   LETTERS  275 

and  ruin  of  the  greater,  nor  can  anything  be  found  of  it  with 
sufficient  certainty  till  the  "  Wits,"  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II, 
after  many  struggles  among  themselves  for  superiority,  at  last 
agreed  to  elect  John  Dryden  to  be  their  king. 

This  King  John  had  a  very  long  reign,  though  a  very  un- 
quiet one ;  for  there  were  several  pretenders  to  the  throne  of 
wit  in  his  time,  who  formed  very  considerable  parties  against 
him,  and  gave  him  great  uneasiness,  of  which  his  successor 
hath  made  mention  in  the  following  lines : — 

Pride,  folly,  malice,  against  Dryden  rose, 
In  various  shapes  of  parsons,  critics,  beaux. 2 

Besides  which,  his  finances  were  in  such  disorder,  that  it  is 
affirmed  his  treasury  was  more  than  once  entirely  empty. 

He  died,  nevertheless,  in  a  good  old  age,  possessed  of  the 
kingdom  of  Wit,  and  was  succeeded  by  King  Alexander,  sur- 
named  Pope. 

This  prince  enjoyed  the  crown  many  years,  and  is  thought  to 
have  stretched  the  prerogative  much  further  than  his  predeces- 
sor ;  he  is  said  to  have  been  extremely  jealous  of  the  affections 
of  his  subjects,  and  to  have  employed  various  spies,  by  whom 
if  he  was  informed  of  the  least  suggestion  against  his  title,  he 
never  failed  of  branding  the  accused  person  with  the  word 
"  dunce  "  on  his  forehead  in  broad  letters ;  after  which  the  un- 
happy culprit  was  obliged  to  lay  by  his  pen  forever,  for  no  book- 
seller would  venture  to  print  a  word  that  he  wrote. 

He  did  indeed  put  a  total  restraint  on  the  liberty  of  the  press ; 
for  no  person  durst  read  anything  which  was  writ  without  his 
license  and  approbation ;  and  this  license  he  granted  only  to 
four  during  his  reign,  namely,  to  the  celebrated  Dr.  Swift,  to 
the  ingenious  Dr.  Young,  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  and  to  one  Mr. 
Gay,  four  of  his  principal  courtiers  and  favorites. 

But  without  diving  any  deeper  into  his  character,  we  must 
allow  that  King  Alexander  had  great  merit  as  a  writer,  and  his 
title  to  the  kingdom  of  Wit  was  better  founded  at  least  than  his 
enemies  have  pretended. 

After  the  demise  of  King  Alexander,  the  literary  state  re- 
lapsed again  into  democracy,  or  rather,  indeed,  into  downright 
anarchy ;  of  which,  as  well  as  of  the  consequences,  I  shall  treat 
in  a  future  paper, 

'  Pope's  "  Essay  on  Criticism,"  1.  438. 


THE    ADVANTAGES    OF    LIVING    IN    A 

GARRET 


LITERARY    COURAGE 


BY 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 
1709—1784 

Samuel  Johnson  was  born  at  Lichfield  in  1709.  His  father  was  a 
bookseller  in  that  city.  He  received  his  early  education  at  the  free 
school  under  Mr.  Hawkins.  For  about  two  years  before  going  up  to 
Oxford  he  was  at  Stourbridge  School.  From  the  university  he  re- 
turned to  Lichfield,  and  became  usher  at  a  school.  This  task  proving 
ungrateful,  he  turned  to  his  first  literary  occupation  as  a  translator. 
On  his  marriage,  in  1736,  he  again  attempted  teaching,  opening  an 
academy  near  Lichfield,  and  in  1737  he  and  Garrick  betook  themselves 
together  to  London  as  candidates  for  the  fame  which  awaited  them. 
Johnson  now  began  the  struggle  of  a  literary  life,  and  continued  it 
with  ever  increasing  renown,  but  with  uncertain  pecuniary  success, 
until  in  1762  he  received  the  grant  of  £300  a  year  from  the  Crown  as 
the  reward  of  his  labors  in  the  field  of  letters.  The  last  twenty  years 
of  his  life  were  passed  in  comparative  ease,  checkered  only  by  the 
loss  of  friends  and  by  the  ill-health  which  beset  his  latter  days.  He 
died  in  1784,  and  was  buried  with  honor  in  Westminster  Abbey,  near 
to  the  monument  of  Shakespeare,  and  close  beside  the  grave  of  Garrick. 

Johnson  was  the  chief  literary  man  of  his  time ;  he  wrote  poems, 
moral  and  controversial  essays,  and  biographies.  While  he  composed 
these,  he  also  prepared  his  celebrated  "  English  Dictionary,"  which 
appeared  in  1755.  His  best  known  works  are  two  satires,  in  verse, 
written  in  imitation  of  Juvenal,  "  London,"  and  the  "  Vanity  of  Hu- 
man Wishes;"  moral  essays,  published  in  the  "Rambler"  and  the 
"Idler;"  "  Rasselas,"  which  was  written  to  defray  the  expense  of 
his  mother's  funeral,  and  to  pay  her  last  debts.  His  edition  of  "  Shake- 
speare," and  his  "  Lives  of  the  Poets  "  were  his  most  important  publica- 
tions subsequent  to  the  appearance  of  the  "  Dictionary."  His  satires, 
his  controversial  works,  his  moral  essays,  and  even  his  dictionary, 
were  among  the  most  popular  works  of  their  day,  and  were  considered 
no  less  remarkable  for  beauty  of  style  than  for  vigor  of  thought.  The 
verdict  of  posterity  has  not  altogether  ratified  the  judgment  of  John- 
son's contemporaries.  His  style,  which  was  the  source  of  his  popu- 
larity, in  the  eighteenth  century,  injures  his  reputation  with  modern 
readers.  His  settled  preference  for  words  derived  from  Latin  sources 
is  opposed  to  modern  taste,  and  frequently  gives  to  his  sentences  an 
air  of  cumbrous  pedantry.  Moreover,  his  thoughts  are  more  remark- 
able for  their  vigorous  good  sense  than  for  their  originality  or  pro- 
foundness. It  is  Johnson's  great  merit  that  he  never  wrote  unless  he 
had  something  to  say,  and  that  he  could  always  express  exactly  what 
he  meant  to  say  in  precise  language.  Few  writers  who  have  filled  as 
many  volumes  have  written  as  little  that  was  not  worth  writing  as 
Johnson.  The  essays  given  here  are  from  the  "  Rambler  "  and  the 
"  Idler,"  respectively. 


278 


THE  ADVANTAGES  OF   LIVING  IN  A  GARRET 

The  gods  they  challenge,  and  affect  the  skies : 

Heaved  on  Olympus,  tottering  Ossa  stood ; 

On  Ossa,  Pelion  nods  with  all  his  wood. — Pope. 

NOTHING  has  more  retarded  the  advancement  of  learn- 
ing than  the  disposition  of  vulgar  minds  to  ridicule  and 
vilify  what  they  cannot  comprehend.  All  industry 
must  be  excited  by  hope ;  and  as  the  student  often  proposes  no 
other  reward  to  himself  than  praise,  he  is  easily  discouraged  by 
contempt  and  insult.  He  who  brings  with  him  into  a  clamorous 
multitude  the  timidity  of  recluse  speculation,  and  has  never 
hardened  his  front  in  public  life,  or  accustomed  his  passions  to 
the  vicissitudes  and  accidents,  the  triumphs  and  defeats  of  mixed 
conversation,  will  blush  at  the  stare  of  petulant  incredulity,  and 
suffer  himself  to  be  driven  by  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the  for- 
tresses of  demonstration.  The  mechanist  will  be  afraid  to  as- 
sert before  hardy  contradiction  the  possibility  of  tearing  down 
bulwarks  with  a  silkworm's  thread ;  and  the  astronomer  of  re- 
lating the  rapidity  of  light,  the  distance  of  the  fixed  stars,  and 
the  height  of  the  lunar  mountains. 

If  I  could  by  any  efforts  have  shaken  off  this  cowardice  I  had 
not  sheltered  myself  under  a  borrowed  name,  nor  applied  to  you 
for  the  means  of  communicating  to  the  public  the  theory  of  a 
garret :  a  subject  which,  except  some  slight  and  transient  strict- 
ures, has  been  hitherto  neglected  by  those  who  were  best  quali- 
fied to  adorn  it,  either  for  want  of  leisure  to  prosecute  the  various 
researches  in  which  a  nice  discussion  must  engage  them,  or  be- 
cause it  requires  such  diversity  of  knowledge,  and  such  extent 
of  curiosity,  as  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  any  single  intellect ;  or 
perhaps  others  foresaw  the  tumults  which  would  be  raised 
against  them,  and  confined  their  knowledge  to  their  own 
breasts,  and  abandoned  prejudice  and  folly  to  the  direction  of 
chance. 

That  the  professors  of  literature  generally  reside  in  the  high- 

279 


28o  JOHNSON 

est  stories  has  been  immemorially  observed.  The  wisdom  of 
the  ancients  was  well  acquainted  with  the  intellectual  advan- 
tages of  an  elevated  situation:  why  else  were  the  Muses  sta- 
tioned on  Olympus,  or  Parnassus,  by  those  who  could  with 
equal  right  have  raised  them  bowers  in  the  vale  of  Tempe,  or 
erected  their  altars  among  the  flexures  of  Meander?  Why  was 
Jove  himself  nursed  upon  a  mountain?  or  why  did  the  god- 
desses, when  the  prize  of  beauty  was  contested,  try  the  cause 
upon  the  top  of  Ida?  Such  were  the  fictions  by  which  the 
great  masters  of  the  earlier  ages  endeavored  to  inculcate  to 
posterity  the  importance  of  a  garret,  which,  though  they  had 
been  long  obscured  by  the  negligence  and  ignorance  of  suc- 
ceeding times,  were  well  enforced  by  the  celebrated  symbol  of 
Pythagoras, 

"  When  the  wind  blows,  worship  its  echo." 

This  could  not  but  be  understood  by  his  disciples  as  an  inviol- 
able injunction  to  live  in  a  garret,  which  I  have  found  frequently 
visited  by  the  echo  and  the  wind.  Nor  was  the  tradition  wholly 
obliterated  in  the  age  of  Augustus,  for  TibuUus  evidently  con- 
gratulates himself  upon  his  garret,  not  without  some  allusion 
to  the  Pythagorean  precept : 

"  Quam  juvat  immites  ventos  audire  cubantem — 
Aut,  gelidas  hihernus  agues  cum  fuderit  auster 
Securum  somnos,  imbre  juvante,  sequi." 

"  How  sweet  in  sleep  to  pass  the  careless  hours, 
LuU'd  by  the  beating  winds  and  dashing  showers." 

And  it  is  impossible  not  to  discover  the  fondness  of  Lucretius, 
an  earlier  writer,  for  a  garret,  in  his  description  of  the  lofty 
towers  of  serene  learning,  and  of  the  pleasure  wath  which  a 
wise  man  looks  down  upon  the  confused  and  erratic  state  of  the 
world  moving  below  him : 

"  Sed  nil  dulcius  est,  bene  quam  tnunita  tenere 
Edita  doctrina  sapientum  templa  serena; 
Despicere  unde  qucas  alios,  passimque  videre 
Errare,  atque  viam  palanteis  queerer e  vitce." 

'Tis  sweet  thy  laboring  steps  to  guide 
To  virtue's  heights,  with  wisdom  well  supplied. 
And  all  the  magazine  of  learning  fortified  : 
From  thence  to  look  below  on  humankind. 
Bewildered  in  the  maze  of  life,  and  hlmd.—Dryden. 


THE  ADVANTAGES   OF   LIVING  IN   A   GARRET      281 

The  institution  has,  indeed,  continued  to  our  own  time;  the 
garret  is  still  the  usual  receptacle  of  the  philosopher  and  poet; 
but  this,  like  many  ancient  customs,  is  perpetuated  only  by  an 
accidental  imitation,  without  knowledge  of  the  original  reason 
for  which  it  was  established : 

"  Causa  latet:  res  est  notissitna." 
The  cause  is  secret,  but  th'  effect  is  known. — Addison. 

Conjectures  have,  indeed,  been  advanced  concerning  these 
habitations  of  literature,  but  without  much  satisfaction  to  the 
judicious  inquirer.  Some  have  imagined  that  the  garret  is  gen- 
erally chosen  by  the  wits  as  most  easily  rented ;  and  concluded 
that  no  man  rejoices  in  his  aerial  abode,  but  on  the  days  of  pay- 
ment. Others  suspect  that  a  garret  is  chiefly  convenient,  as  it 
it  remoter  than  any  other  part  of  the  house  from  the  outer  door, 
which  is  often  observed  to  be  infested  by  visitants,  who  talk  in- 
cessantly of  beer,  or  linen,  or  a  coat,  and  repeat  the  same  sounds 
every  morning,  and  sometimes  again  in  the  afternoon,  without 
any  variation,  except  that  they  grow  daily  more  importunate 
and  clamorous,  and  raise  their  voices  in  time  from  mournful 
murmurs  to  raging  vociferations.  This  eternal  monotony  is 
always  detestable  to  a  man  whose  chief  pleasure  is  to  enlarge 
his  knowledge  and  vary  his  ideas.  Others  talk  of  freedom  from 
noise,  and  abstraction  from  common  business  or  amusements; 
and  some,  yet  more  visionary,  tell  us  that  the  faculties  are  en- 
larged by  open  prospects,  and  that  the  fancy  is  more  at  liberty 
when  the  eye  ranges  without  confinement. 

These  conveniences  may  perhaps  all  be  found  in  a  well-chosen 
garret ;  but  surely  they  cannot  be  supposed  sufficiently  impor- 
tant to  have  operated  invariably  upon  different  climates,  distant 
ages,  and  separate  nations.  Of  a  universal  practice,  there  must 
still  be  presumed  a  universal  cause,  which,  however  recondite 
and  abstruse,  may  be  perhaps  reserved  to  make  me  illustrious  by 
its  discovery,  and  you  by  its  promulgation. 

It  is  universally  known  that  the  faculties  of  the  mind  are  in- 
vigorated or  weakened  by  the  state  of  the  body,  and  that  the 
body  is  in  a  great  measure  regulated  by  the  various  compres- 
sions of  the  ambient  element.  The  effects  of  the  air  in  the  pro- 
duction or  cure  of  corporeal  maladies  have  been  acknowledged 
from  the  time  of  Hippocrates ;  but  no  man  has  yet  sufficiently 

13— Vol,  57 


282  JOHNSON 

considered  how  far  it  may  influence  the  operations  of  the  genius, 
though  every  day  affords  instances  of  local  understanding,  of 
wits  and  reasoners,  whose  faculties  are  adapted  to  some  single 
spot,  and  who,  when  they  are  removed  to  any  other  place,  sink 
at  once  into  silence  and  stupidity.  I  have  discovered,  by  a  long 
series  of  observations,  that  invention  and  elocution  suffer  great 
impediments  from  dense  and  impure  vapors,  and  that  the 
tenuity  of  a  defecated  air,  at  a  proper  distance  from  the  surface 
of  the  earth,  accelerates  the  fancy,  and  sets  at  liberty  those  in- 
tellectual powers  which  were  before  shackled  by  too  strong  at- 
traction, and  unable  to  expand  themselves  under  the  pressure 
of  a  gross  atmosphere.  I  have  found  dulness  to  quicken  into 
sentiment  in  a  thin  ether,  as  water,  though  not  very  hot,  boils  in 
a  receiver  partly  exhausted;  and  heads,  in  appearance  empty, 
have  teemed  with  notions  upon  rising  ground,  as  the  flaccid 
sides  of  a  football  would  have  swelled  out  into  stiffness  and 
extension. 

For  this  reason  I  never  think  myself  qualified  to  judge  de- 
cisively of  any  man's  faculties  whom  I  have  only  known  in  one 
degree  of  elevation;  but  take  some  opportunity  of  attending 
him  from  the  cellar  to  the  garret,  and  try  upon  him  all  the 
various  degrees  of  rarefaction  and  condensation,  tension  and 
laxity.  If  he  is  neither  vivacious  aloft,  nor  serious  below,  I 
then  consider  him  as  hopeless ;  but  as  it  seldom  happens  that  I 
do  not  find  the  temper  to  which  the  texture  of  his  brain  is  fitted, 
I  accommodate  him  in  time  with  a  tube  of  mercury,  first  mark- 
ing the  point  most  favorable  to  his  intellects,  according  to  rules 
which  I  have  long  studied,  and  which  I  may,  perhaps,  reveal  to 
mankind  in  a  complete  treatise  of  barometrical  pneumatology. 

Another  cause  of  the  gayety  and  sprightliness  of  the  dwellers 
in  garrets  is  probably  the  increase  of  that  vertiginous  motion, 
with  which  we  are  carried  round  by  the  diurnal  revolution  of 
the  earth.  The  power  of  agitation  -upon  the  spirits  is  well 
known;  every  man  has  felt  his  heart  lightened  in  a  rapid  ve- 
hicle, or  on  a  galloping  horse ;  and  nothing  is  plainer,  than  that 
he  who  towers  to  the  fifth  story,  is  whirled  through  more  space 
by  every  circumrotation  than  another  that  grovels  upon  the 
ground-floor.  The  nations  between  the  tropics  are  known  to 
be  fiery,  inconstant,  inventive,  and  fanciful ;  because,  living  at 
the  utmost  length  of  the  earth's  diameter,  they  are  carried  about 


THE   ADVANTAGES   OF   LIVING   IN   A   GARRET      283 

with  more  swiftness  than  those  whom  nature  has  placed  nearer 
to  the  poles ;  and,  therefore,  as  it  becomes  a  wise  man  to  strug- 
gle with  riie  inconveniences  of  his  country,  we  must  actuate  our 
languor  by  taking  a  few  turns  round  the  centre  in  a  garret. 

If  you  imagine  that  I  ascribe  to  air  and  motion  effects  which 
they  cannot  produce,  I  desire  you  to  consult  your  own  memory, 
and  consider  whether  you  have  never  known  a  man  acquire  a 
reputation  in  his  garret,  which,  when  fortune  or  a  patron  had 
placed  him  upon  the  first  floor,  he  was  unable  to  maintain ;  and 
who  never  recovered  his  former  vigor  of  understanding  till  he 
was  restored  to  his  original  situation.  That  a  garret  will  make 
every  man  a  wit  I  am  very  far  from  supposing ;  I  know  there  are 
some  who  would  continue  blockheads  even  on  the  summit  of  the 
Andes  or  on  the  peak  of  Teneriffe.  But  let  not  any  man  be 
considered  as  unimprovable  till  this  potent  remedy  has  been 
tried ;  for  perhaps  he  was  formed  to  be  great  only  in  a  garret, 
as  the  joiner  of  Aretseus  was  rational  in  no  other  place  but  in 
his  own  shop. 

I  think  a  frequent  removal  to  various  distances  from  the  cen- 
tre so  necessary  to  a  just  estimate  of  intellectual  abilities,  and 
consequently  of  so  great  use  in  education,  that  if  I  hoped  that 
the  public  could  be  persuaded  to  so  expensive  an  experiment, 
I  would  propose,  that  there  should  be  a  cavern  dug,  and  a  tower 
erected,  like  those  which  Bacon  describes  in  Solomon's  house, 
for  the  expansion  and  concentration  of  understanding,  accord- 
ing to  the  exigence  of  different  employments,  or  constitutions. 
Perhaps  some  that  fume  away  in  meditations  upon  time  and 
space  in  the  tower  might  compose  tables  of  interest  at  a  certain 
depth;  and  he  that  upon  level  ground  stagnates  in  silence,  or 
creeps  in  narrative,  might,  at  the  height  of  half  a  mile,  ferment 
into  merriment,  sparkle  with  repartee,  and  froth  with  declama- 
tion. 

Addison  observes  that  we  may  find  the  heat  of  Vergil's  cli- 
mate in  some  lines  of  his  Georgic ;  so  when  I  read  a  composition 
I  immediately  determine  the  height  of  the  author's  habitation. 
As  an  elaborate  performance  is  commonly  said  to  smell  of  the 
lamp,  my  commendation  of  a  noble  thought,  a  sprightly  sally, 
or  a  bold  figure,  is  to  pronounce  it  fresh  from  the  garret;  an 
expression  which  would  break  from  me  upon  the  perusal  of 
most  of  your  papers,  did  I  not  believe  that  you  sometimes  quit 
the  garret,  and  ascend  into  the  cock-loft. 


LITERARY  COURAGE 

!Pum  vitant  stulti  vitia,  in  contraria  currunt. — Horace, 

Whilst  fools  one  vice  condemn, 
They  run  into  the  opposite  extreme. — CreecK 

THAT  wonder  is  the  effect  of  ignorance  has  been  ofteil 
observed.  The  awful  stillness  of  attention  with  which 
the  mind  is  overspread  at  the  first  view  of  an  unex- 
pected effect  ceases  when  we  have  leisure  to  disentangle  com- 
plications and  investigate  causes.  Wonder  is  a  pause  of  rea- 
son, a  sudden  cessation  of  the  mental  progress,  which  lasts  only 
while  the  understanding  is  fixed  upon  some  single  idea,  and  is 
at  an  end  when  it  recovers  force  enough  to  divide  the  object  into 
its  parts  or  mark  the  intermediate  gradations  from  the  first 
agent  to  the  last  consequence. 

It  may  be  remarked  with  equal  truth  that  ignorance  is  often 
the  effect  of  wonder.  It  is  common  for  those  who  have  never 
accustomed  themselves  to  the  labor  of  inquiry,  nor  invigorated 
their  confidence  by  conquests  over  difficulty,  to  sleep  in  the 
gloomy  quiescence  of  astonishment  without  any  effect  to  ani- 
mate inquiry  or  dispel  obscurity.  What  they  cannot  immedi- 
ately conceive  they  consider  as  too  high  to  be  reached,  or  too 
extensive  to  be  comprehended;  they  therefore  content  them- 
selves with  the  gaze  of  folly,  forbear  to  attempt  what  they  have 
no  hope  of  performing,  and  resign  the  pleasure  of  rational  con- 
templation to  more  pertinacious  study  or  more  active  faculties. 

Among  the  productions  of  mechanic  art,  many  are  of  a  form 
so  different  from  that  of  their  first  materials,  and  many  consist 
of  parts  so  numerous  and  so  nicely  adapted  to  each  other  that 
it  is  not  possible  to  view  them  without  amazement.  But  when 
we  enter  the  shops  of  artificers,  observe  the  various  tools  by 
which  every  operation  is  facilitated,  and  trace  the  progress  of  a 
manufacture  through  the  different  hands  that,  in  succession  to 
each  other,  contribute  to  its  perfection,  we  soon  discover  that 

285 


286  JOHNSON 

every  single  man  has  an  easy  task,  and  that  the  extremes,  how- 
ever remote,  of  natural  rudeness  and  artificial  elegance  are 
joined  by  a  regular  concatenation  of  effects,  of  which  every  one 
is  introduced  by  that  which  precedes  it,  and  equally  introduces 
that  which  is  to  follow. 

The  same  is  the  state  of  intellectual  and  manual  performances. 
Long  calculations  or  complex  diagrams  affright  the  timorous 
and  unexperienced  from  a  second  view;  but  if  we  have  skill 
sufficient  to  analyze  them  into  simple  principles,  it  will  be  dis- 
covered that  our  fear  was  groundless.  "  Divide  and  conquer  " 
is  a  principle  equally  just  in  science  as  in  policy.  Complication 
is  a  species  of  confederacy  which,  while  it  continues  united, 
bids  defiance  to  the  most  active  and  vigorous  intellect,  but  of 
which  every  member  is  separately  weak,  and  which  may  there- 
fore be  quickly  subdued,  if  it  can  once  be  broken. 

The  chief  art  of  learning,  as  Locke  has  observed,  is  to  at- 
tempt but  little  at  a  time.  The  widest  excursions  of  the  mind 
are  made  by  short  flights  frequently  repeated;  the  most  lofty 
fabrics  of  science  are  formed  by  the  continued  accumulation  of 
single  propositions. 

It  often  happens,  whatever  be  the  cause,  that  impatience  of 
labor,  or  dread  of  miscarriage,  seizes  those  who  are  most  dis- 
tinguished for  quickness  of  apprehension ;  and  that  they  who 
might  with  greatest  reason  promise  themselves  victory  are  least 
willing  to  hazard  the  encounter.  This  diffidence,  where  the  at- 
tention is  not  laid  asleep  by  laziness,  or  dissipated  by  pleasures, 
can  arise  only  from  confused  and  general  views,  such  as  negli- 
gence snatches  in  haste,  or  from  the  disappointment  of  the  first 
hopes  formed  by  arrogance  without  reflection.  To  expect  that 
the  intricacies  of  science  will  be  pierced  by  a  careless  glance,  or 
the  eminences  of  fame  ascended  without  labor,  is  to  expect  a 
peculiar  privilege,  a  power  denied  to  the  rest  of  mankind ;  but 
to  suppose  that  the  maze  is  inscrutable  to  diligence  or  the 
heights  inaccessible  to  perseverance,  is  to  submit  tamely  to  the 
tyranny  of  fancy,  and  enchain  the  mind  in  voluntary  shackles. 

It  is  the  proper  ambition  of  the  heroes  of  literature  to  enlarge 
the  boundaries  of  knowledge  by  discovering  and  conquering 
new  regions  of  the  intellectual  world.  To  the  success  of  such 
undertakings,  perhaps,  some  degree  of  fortuitous  happiness  is 
necessary,  which  no  man  can  promise  or  procure  to  himself; 


LITERARY   COURAGE  287 

and  therefore  doubt  and  irresolution  may  be  forgiven  in  him 
that  ventures  into  the  unexplored  abysses  of  truth,  and  attempts 
to  find  his  way  through  the  fluctuations  of  uncertainty,  and  the 
conflicts  of  contradiction.  But  when  nothing  more  is  required 
than  to  pursue  a  path  already  beaten,  and  to  trample  obstacles 
which  others  have  demolished,  why  should  any  man  so  much 
distrust  his  own  intellect  as  to  imagine  himself  unequal  to  the 
attempt  ? 

It  were  to  be  wished  that  they  who  devote  their  lives  to  study 
would  at  once  believe  nothing  too  great  for  their  attainment, 
and  consider  nothing  as  too  little  for  their  regard ;  that  they 
would  extend  their  notice  alike  to  science  and  to  life,  and  unite 
some  knowledge  of  the  present  world  to  their  acquaintance  with 
past  ages  and  remote  events. 

Nothing  has  so  much  exposed  men  of  learning  to  contempt 
and  ridicule  as  their  ignorance  of  things  which  are  known  to  all 
but  themselves.  Those  who  have  been  taught  to  consider  the 
institutions  of  the  schools  as  giving  the  last  perfection  to  human 
abilities  are  surprised  to  see  men  wrinkled  with  study,  yet  want- 
ing to  be  instructed  in  the  minute  circumstances  of  propriety, 
or  the  necessary  forms  of  daily  transaction ;  and  quickly  shake 
off  their  reverence  for  modes  of  education,  which  they  find  to 
produce  no  ability  above  the  rest  of  mankind. 

"  Books,"  says  Bacon,  "  can  never  teach  the  use  of  books." 
The  student  must  learn  by  commerce  with  mankind  to  reduce 
his  speculations  to  practice,  and  accommodate  his  knowledge  to 
the  purposes  of  life. 

It  is  too  common  for  those  who  have  been  bred  to  scholastic 
professions,  and  passed  much  of  their  time  in  academies  where 
nothing  but  learning  confers  honors,  to  disregard  every  other 
qualification,  and  to  imagine  that  they  shall  find  mankind  ready 
to  pay  homage  to  their  knowledge,  and  to  crowd  about  them  for 
instruction.  They  therefore  step  out  from  their  cells  into  the 
open  world  with  all  the  confidence  of  authority  and  dignity  of 
importance ;  they  look  round  about  them  at  once  with  ignorance 
and  scorn  on  a  race  of  beings  to  whom  they  are  equally  un- 
known and  equally  contemptible,  but  whose  manners  they  must 
imitate,  and  with  whose  opinions  they  must  comply,  if  they  de- 
sire to  pass  their  time  happily  among  them. 

To  lessen  that  disdain  with  which  scholars  are  inclined  to  look 


288  JOHNSON 

on  the  common  business  of  the  world,  and  the  unwillingness 
with  which  they  condescend  to  learn  what  is  not  to  be  found  in 
any  system  of  philosophy,  it  may  be  necessary  to  consider  that, 
though  admiration  is  excited  by  abstruse  researches  and  remote 
discoveries,  yet  pleasure  is  not  given,  nor  affection  conciliated, 
but  by  sorfter  accomplishments,  and  qualities  more  easily  com- 
municable to  those  about  us.  He  that  can  only  converse  upon 
questions  about  which  only  a  small  part  of  mankind  has  knowl- 
edge sufficient  to  make  them  curious,  must  lose  his  days  in  un- 
social silence,  and  live  in  the  crowd  of  life  without  a  compan- 
ion. He  that  can  only  be  useful  on  great  occasions  may  die 
without  exerting  his  abilities,  and  stand  a  helpless  spectator  of 
a  thousand  vexations  which  fret  away  happiness,  and  which 
nothing  is  required  to  remove  but  a  little  dexterity  of  conduct 
and  readiness  of  expedients. 

No  degree  of  knowledge  attainable  by  man  is  able  to  set 
him  above  the  want  of  hourly  assistance,  or  to  extinguish  the 
desire  of  fond  endearments  and  tender  ofificiousness ;  and  there- 
fore no  one  should  think  it  unnecessary  to  learn  those  arts  by 
which  friendship  may  be  gained.  Kindness  is  preserved  by  a 
constant  reciprocation  of  benefits  or  interchange  of  pleasures ; 
but  such  benefits  only  can  be  bestowed  as  others  are  capable 
to  receive,  and  such  pleasures  only  imparted  as  others  are  quali- 
fied to  enjoy. 

By  this  descent  from  the  pinnacles  of  art  no  honor  will  be 
lost ;  for  the  condescensions  of  learning  are  always  overpaid  by 
gratitude.  An  elevated  genius  employed  in  little  things  ap- 
pears, to  use  the  simile  of  Longinus,  like  the  sun  in  his  even- 
ing declination ;  he  remits  his  splendor  but  retains  his  magni- 
tude, and  pleases  more  though  he  dazzles  less. 


OF    THE    DELICACY    OF    TASTE    AND 
PASSION 


OF    SIMPLICITY    AND    REFINEMENT 
IN    WRITING 


BY 


DAVID    HUME 


DAVID   HUME 
1711 — 1776 

David  Hume  was  born  at  Edinburgh  in  171 1,  and  died  there  in  1776. 
His  father  was  a  small  Scottish  laird  of  the  great  border  clan  of  Home 
or  Hume.  His  mother  was  a  daughter  of  Sir  David  Falconer,  Presi- 
dent of  the  College  of  Justice.  She  was  a  woman  of  singular  merit; 
and  being  left  a  widow  with  several  young  children,  devoted  herself 
to  their  education.  David,  the  second  son,  was  left  with  a  very  slender 
inheritance,  and  it  was  resolved  that  he  should  try  his  fortunes  at  the 
law.  But  this  study  was  distasteful  to  him,  and  for  a  few  months  he 
entered  the  house  of  a  merchant  at  Bristol.  Business,  however,  he 
disliked  even  more  than  law,  and  at  twenty-three  he  resolved  to  devote 
his  life  to  philosophy  and  literature.  For  the  next  three  years  he  lived 
with  great  frugality  in  a  French  country  town,  where  he  wrote  his 
"  Treatise  on  Human  Nature,"  and  then  came  to  London  to  publish  it. 
At  his  brother's  house  in  Scotland  he  heard  that  it  liad  fallen  "  dead- 
born  from  the  press."  He  continued  to  reside  with  his  brother  for 
some  years,  and  in  1742  published  the  first  part  of  his  "  Essays,"  which 
were  received  somewhat  more  favorably.  His  studious  habits  were  a 
few  years  later  interrupted  by  an  engagement  to  serve  as  secretary  to 
General  Sinclair,  during  that  officer's  military  embassy  to  Vienna  and 
Turin.  Returning  to  his  brother's  hospitable  house,  he  published  in 
1751  the  second  part  of  his  "  Essays,"  and  recast  the  first  part.  This 
first  part  related  to  the  principles  of  morals,  and  he  considered  it  his 
best  work ;  but  it  failed  to  achieve  so  high  a  place  in  popular  esteem 
as  the  political  discourses  which  formed  the  second  part. 

He  now  made  Edinburgh  his  headquarters,  and  being  appointed 
librarian  to  the  Faculty  of  Advocates,  obtained  what  he  chiefly  valued, 
a  great  command  of  books.  This  led  him  to  historical  studies ;  and  in 
1754  he  published  his  "  History  of  Charles  I."  But  his  first  trial  in 
this  department  met  with  no  encouragement;  in  twelve  months  only 
forty-five  copies  were  sold.  Notwithstanding,  in  two  years'  time  he 
put  out  a  continuation  of  the  "  History  of  the  Stuarts,  from  the  Death 
of  Charles  I  to  the  Revolution  of  1688;"  and  this  volume  had  much 
greater  success.  In  the  following  year  he  completed  his  "  History  of 
England;  "  the  "  House  of  Tudor"  furnishing  the  subject  of  his  next 
volumes,  and  the  "  Early  Annals  "  being  published  last  in  order.  His 
name  had  now  become  famous;  and  in  1763,  when  he  visited  Paris 
as  attached  to  Lord  Hertford's  embassy,  he  was  received  by  the  literary 
society  of  that  city  with  extraordinary  enthusiasm.  Returning  to  Eng- 
land in  1766,  he  was  appointed  Under-Secretary  of  State  by  General 
Conway,  brother  of  Lord  Hertford,  and  served  for  two  or  three  years 
in  the  Home  Office.  In  1769  he  retired  for  the  last  time  to  Edinburgh, 
in  the  possession  of  a  handsome  income.  But  in  1775  he  was  attacked 
by  a  lingering  disorder,  which  he  bore  with  unfailing  patience  and 
cheerfulness  till  he  died  in  his  sixty-fifth  year.  The  style  in  which  he 
wrote  reflects  his  character  with  great  exactness :  it  is  simple  and 
luminous ;  not  calculated  to  raise  high  admiration  or  greatly  excite 
the  feelings,  but  seldom  failing  to  win  the  reader  by  its  singular  grace 
and  unaffected  ease.  No  writer  except  Addison  has  equalled  Hume 
as  an  essayist  in  purity  of  diction,  and  the  three  essays  given  here 
are  models  of  their  kind,  abounding  in  critical  acumen  and  intellectual 
sparkle. 


290 


OF  THE  DELICACY  OF  TASTE  AND  PASSION 

SOME  people  are  subject  to  a  certain  delicacy  of  passion 
which  makes  them  extremely  sensible  to  all  the  accidents 
of  life,  and  gives  them  a  lively  joy  upon  every  prosper- 
ous event,  as  well  as  a  piercing  grief  when  they  meet  with 
misfortunes  and  adversity.  Favors  and  good  offices  easily  en- 
gage their  friendship;  while  the  smallest  injury  provokes  their 
resentment.  Any  honor  or  mark  of  distinction  elevates  them 
above  measure ;  but  they  are  as  sensibly  touched  with  contempt. 
People  of  this  character  have,  no  doubt,  more  lively  enjoy- 
ments, as  well  as  more  pungent  sorrows,  than  men  of  cool  and 
sedate  tempers:  but,  I  believe,  when  everything  is  balanced, 
there  is  no  one  who  would  not  rather  be  of  the  latter  character, 
were  he  entirely  master  of  his  own  disposition.  Good  or  ill 
fortune  is  very  little  at  our  disposal :  and  when  a  person  that 
has  this  sensibility  of  temper  meets  with  any  misfortune,  his 
sorrow  or  resentment  takes  entire  possession  of  him,  and  de- 
prives him  of  all  relish  in  the  common  occurrences  of  life ;  the 
right  enjoyment  of  which  forms  the  chief  part  of  our  happi- 
ness. Great  pleasures  are  much  less  frequent  than  great  pains ; 
so  that  a  sensible  temper  must  meet  with  fewer  trials  in  the 
former  way  than  in  the  latter.  Not  to  mention  that  men  of 
such  lively  passions  are  apt  to  be  transported  beyond  all  bounds 
of  prudence  and  discretion,  and  to  take  false  steps  in  the  con- 
duct of  life  which  are  often  irretrievable. 

There  is  a  delicacy  of  taste  observable  in  some  men,  which 
very  much  resembles  this  delicacy  of  passion,  and  produces  the 
same  sensibility  to  beauty  and  deformity  of  every  kind,  as  that 
does  to  prosperity  and  adversity,  obligations  and  injuries. 
When  you  present  a  poem  or  a  picture  to  a  man  possessed  of 
this  talent,  the  delicacy  of  his  feelings  makes  him  be  sensibly 
touched  with  every  part  of  it ;  nor  are  the  masterly  strokes 
perceived  with  more  exquisite  relish  and  satisfaction  than  the 

291 


292 


HUME 


negligences  or  absurdities  with  disgust  and  uneasiness.  A  po- 
lite and  judicious  conversation  affords  him  the  highest  enter- 
tainment; rudeness  or  impertinence  is  as  great  a  punishment 
to  him.  In  short,  delicacy  of  taste  has  the  same  effect  as  deli- 
cacy of  passion :  it  enlarges  the  sphere  both  of  our  happiness 
and  misery,  and  makes  us  sensible  to  the  pains  as  well  as  to 
the  pleasures  which  escape  the  rest  of  mankind. 

I  believe,  however,  everyone  will  agree  with  me  that,  not- 
withstanding this  resemblance,  delicacy  of  taste  is  as  much  to 
be  desired  and  cultivated  as  delicacy  of  passion  is  to  be  la- 
mented, and  to  be  remedied,  if  possible.  The  good  or  ill  ac- 
cidents of  life  are  very  little  at  our  disposal,  but  we  are  pretty 
much  masters  what  books  we  shall  read,  what  diversions  we 
shall  partake  of,  and  what  company  we  shall  keep.  Philoso- 
phers have  endeavored  to  render  happiness  entirely  independ- 
dent  of  everything  external.  The  degree  of  perfection  is 
impossible  to  be  attained ;  but  every  wise  man  will  endeavor 
to  place  his  happiness  on  such  objects  chiefly  as  depend  upon 
himself:  and  that  is  not  to  be  attained  so  much  by  any  other 
means  as  by  this  delicacy  of  sentiment.  When  a  man  is  pos- 
sessed of  that  talent,  he  is  more  happy  by  what  pleases  his 
taste  than  by  what  gratifies  his  appetites;  and  receives  more 
enjoyment  from  a  poem  or  a  piece  of  reasoning  than  the  most 
expensive  luxury  can  afford. 

Whatever  connection  there  may  be  originally  between  these 
two  species  of  delicacy,  I  am  persuaded  that  nothing  is  so 
proper  to  cure  us  of  this  delicacy  of  passion  as  the  cultivating 
of  that  higher  and  more  refined  taste,  which  enables  us  to  judge 
of  the  characters  of  men,  of  compositions  of  genius,  and  of  the 
productions  of  the  nobler  arts.  A  greater  or  less  relish  for 
those  obvious  beauties,  which  strike  the  senses,  depends  en- 
tirely upon  the  greater  or  less  sensibility  of  the  temper:  but 
with  regard  to  the  sciences  and  liberal  arts,  a  fine  taste  is,  in 
some  measure,  the  same  with  strong  sense,  or  at  least  depends 
so  much  upon  it  that  they  are  inseparable.  In  order  to  judge 
aright  of  a  composition  of  genius,  there  are  so  many  views  to 
be  taken  in,  so  many  circumstances  to  be  compared,  and  such  a 
knowledge  of  human  nature  requisite,  that  no  man,  who  is  not 
possessed  of  the  soundest  judgment,  will  ever  make  a  tolerable 
critic  in  such  performances.     And  this  is  a  new  reason  for 


OF   THE   DELICACY   OF   TASTE   AND    PASSION      293 

cultivating  a  relish  in  the  liberal  arts.  Our  judgment  will 
strengthen  by  this  exercise:  we  shall  form  juster  notions  of 
life.  Many  things  which  please  or  afflict  others  will  appear  to 
us  too  frivolous  to  engage  our  attention:  and  we  shall  lose  by 
degrees  that  sensibility  and  delicacy  of  passion  which  are  so  in- 
commodious. 

But  perhaps  I  have  gone  too  far  in  saying  that  a  cultivated 
taste  for  the  polite  arts  extinguishes  the  passions,  and  renders 
us  indifferent  to  those  objects  which  are  so  fondly  pursued  by 
the  rest  of  mankind.  On  further  reflection,  I  find  that  it  rather 
improves  our  sensibility  for  all  the  tender  and  agreeable  pas- 
sions ;  at  the  same  time  that  it  renders  the  mind  incapable  of 
the  rougher  and  more  boisterous  emotions. 

"Ingenuas  didicisse  fideliter  artes, 
Emollit  mores,  nee  sinii  esse  f  eras." 

For  this,  I  think,  there  may  be  assigned  two  very  natural 
reasons : 

I.  Nothing  is  so  improving  to  the  temper  as  the  study  of  the 
beauties,  either  of  poetry,  eloquence,  music,  or  painting.  They 
give  a  certain  elegance  of  sentiment  to  which  the  rest  of  man- 
kind are  strangers.  The  emotions  which  they  excite  are  soft 
and  tender.  They  draw  off  the  mind  from  the  hurry  of  busi- 
ness and  interest ;  cherish  reflection ;  dispose  to  tranquillity ; 
and  produce  an  agreeable  melancholy,  which,  of  all  dispositions 
of  the  mind,  is  best  suited  to  love  and  friendship. 

II.  A  delicacy  of  taste  is  favorable  to  love  and  friendship,  by 
confining  our  choice  to  few  people,  and  making  us  indifferent 
to  the  company  and  conversation  of  the  greater  part  of  men. 
You  will  seldom  find  that  mere  men  of  the  world,  whatever 
strong  sense  they  may  be  endowed  with,  are  very  nice  in  dis- 
tinguishing characters,  or  in  marking  those  insensible  differ- 
ences and  gradations,  which  make  one  man  preferable  to  an- 
other. Anyone  that  has  competent  sense  is  sufficient  for  their 
entertainment :  they  talk  to  him  of  their  pleasures  and  affairs, 
with  the  same  frankness  that  they  would  to  another ;  and  find- 
ing many  who  are  fit  to  supply  his  place,  they  never  feel  any 
vacancy  or  want  in  his  absence.  But  to  make  use  of  the  allu- 
sion of  a  celebrated  French  author,^  the  judgment  may  be  com- 

•  Fontenelle,  "  Pluralite  des  Mondes,"  Sixierae  Soir. 


294  HUME 

pared  to  a  clock  or  watch,  where  the  most  ordinary  machinery 
is  sufficient  to  tell  the  hours ;  but  the  most  elaborate  alone  can 
point  out  the  minutes  and  seconds,  and  distinguish  the  smallest 
differences  of  time.  One  that  has  well  digested  his  knowledge 
both  of  books  and  men  has  little  enjoyment  but  in  the  company 
of  a  few  select  companions.  He  feels  too  sensibly  how  much 
all  the  rest  of  mankind  fall  short  of  the  notions  which  he  has 
entertained.  And,  his  affections  being  thus  confined  within  a 
narrow  circle,  no  wonder  he  carries  them  further  than  if  they 
were  more  general  and  undistinguished.  The  gayety  and  frolic 
of  a  bottle  companion  improves  with  him  into  a  solid  friend- 
ship :  and  the  ardors  of  a  youthful  appetite  become  an  elegant 
passion. 


OF    SIMPLICITY    AND    REFINEMENT    IN 
WRITING 

FINE  writing,  according  to  Addison,  consists  of  senti- 
ments which  are  natural,  without  being  obvious.  There 
cannot  be  a  juster  and  more  concise  definition  of  fine 
writing. 

Sentiments  which  are  merely  natural  afiPect  not  the  mind  with 
any  pleasure,  and  seem  not  worthy  of  our  attention.  The 
pleasantries  of  a  waterman,  the  observations  of  a  peasant,  the 
ribaldry  of  a  porter  or  hackney  coachman,  all  of  these  are  nat- 
ural and  disagreeable.  What  an  insipid  comedy  should  we 
make  of  the  chit-chat  of  the  tea-table,  copied  faithfully  and  at 
full  length?  Nothing  can  please  persons  of  taste,  but  nature 
drawn  with  all  her  graces  and  ornaments,  la  belle  nature;  or  if 
we  copy  low  life,  the  strokes  must  be  strong  and  remarkable, 
and  must  convey  a  lively  image  to  the  mind.  The  absurd 
naivete  of  Sancho  Panza  is  represented  in  such  inimitable 
colors  by  Cervantes  that  it  entertains  as  much  as  the  picture  of 
the  most  magnanimous  hero  or  the  softest  lover. 

The  case  is  the  same  with  orators,  philosophers,  critics,  or 
any  author  who  speaks  in  his  own  person,  without  introducing 
other  speakers  or  actors.  If  his  language  be  not  elegant,  his 
observations  uncommon,  his  sense  strong  and  masculine,  he 
will  in  vain  boast  his  nature  and  simplicity.  He  may  be  cor- 
rect ;  but  he  never  will  be  agreeable.  It  is  the  unhappiness  of 
such  authors  that  they  are  never  blamed  or  censured.  The 
good  fortune  of  a  book,  and  that  of  a  man,  are  not  the  same. 
The  secret  deceiving  path  of  life,  which  Horace  talks  of,  "  fal- 
lentis  semita  vitce,"  may  be  the  happiest  lot  of  the  one ;  but  it 
is  the  greatest  misfortune  which  the  other  can  possibly  fall 
into. 

On  the  other  hand,  productions  which  are  merely  surprising, 
without  being  natural,  can  never  give  any  lasting  entertainment 

295 


296  HUME 

to  the  mind.  To  draw  chimeras  is  not,  properly  speaking,  to 
copy  or  imitate.  The  justness  of  representation  is  lost,  and  the 
mind  is  displeased  to  find  a  picture  which  bears  no  resemblance 
to  any  original.  Nor  are  such  excessive  refinements  more 
agreeable  in  the  epistolary  or  philosophic  style  than  in  the  epic 
or  tragic.  Too  much  ornament  is  a  fault  in  every  kind  of 
production.  Uncommon  expressions,  strong  flashes  of  wit, 
pointed  similes,  and  epigrammatic  turns,  especially  when  they 
recur  too  frequently,  are  a  disfigurement  rather  than  any  em- 
bellishment of  discourse.  As  the  eye,  in  surveying  a  Gothic 
building,  is  distracted  by  the  multiplicity  of  ornaments,  and 
loses  the  whole  by  a  minute  attention  to  the  parts ;  so  the  mind, 
in  perusing  a  work  overstocked  with  wit,  is  fatigued  and  dis- 
gusted with  the  constant  endeavor  to  shine  and  surprise.  This 
is  the  case  where  a  writer  overabounds  in  wit,  even  though  that 
wit  in  itself  should  be  just  and  agreeable.  But  it  commonly 
happens  to  such  writers  that  they  seek  for  their  favorite  orna- 
ments, even  where  the  subject  does  not  afford  them ;  and  by 
that  means  have  twenty  insipid  conceits  for  one  thought  which 
is  really  beautiful. 

There  is  no  object  in  critical  learning  more  copious  than  this 
of  the  just  mixture  of  simplicity  and  refinement  in  writing; 
and  therefore,  not  to  wander  in  too  large  a  field,  I  shall  con- 
fine myself  to  a  few  general  observations  on  that  head. 

I.  I  observe  that  though  excesses  of  both  kinds  are  to  be 
avoided,  and  though  a  proper  medium  ought  to  be  studied  in 
all  productions,  yet  this  medium  lies  not  in  a  point,  but  admits 
of  a  considerable  latitude.  Consider  the  wide  distance,  in  this 
respect,  between  Pope  and  Lucretius.  These  seem  to  lie  in  the 
two  greatest  extremes  of  refinement  and  simplicity  in  which 
a  poet  can  indulge  himself,  without  being  guilty  of  any  blam- 
able  excess.  All  this  interval  may  be  filled  with  poets,  who 
may  differ  from  each  other,  but  may  be  equally  admirable,  each 
in  his  peculiar  style  and  manner.  Corneille  and  Congreve,  who 
carry  their  wit  and  refinement  somewhat  further  than  Pope  (if 
poets  of  so  different  a  kind  can  be  compared  together),  and 
Sophocles  and  Terence,  who  are  more  simple  than  Lucretius, 
seem  to  have  gone  out  of  that  medium,  in  which  the  most  per- 
fect productions  are  found,  and  to  be  guilty  of  some  excess 
in  these  opposite  characters.    Of  all  the  great  poets,  Vergil  and 


OF   SIMPLICITY   AND   REFINEMENT   IN    WRITING     297 

Racine,  in  my  opinion,  lie  nearest  the  centre,  and  are  the  fur- 
thest removed  from  both  the  extremities. 

II.  My  observation  on  this  head  is  that  it  is  very  difficult, 
if  not  impossible,  to  explain  by  words  where  the  just  medium 
lies  between  the  excesses  of  simplicity  and  refinement,  or  to 
give  any  rule  by  which  we  can  know  precisely  the  bounds  be- 
tween the  fault  and  the  beauty.  A  critic  may  not  only  discourse 
very  judiciously  on  this  head  without  instructing  his  readers, 
but  even  without  understanding  the  matter  perfectly  himself. 
There  is  not  a  finer  piece  of  criticism  than  the  "  Dissertation 
on  Pastorals,"  by  Fontenelle ;  in  which,  by  a  number  of  reflec- 
tions and  philosophical  reasonings,  he  endeavors  to  fix  the  just 
medium  which  is  suitable  to  that  species  of  writing.  But  let 
anyone  read  the  pastorals  of  that  author,  and  he  will  be  con- 
vinced that  this  judicious  critic,  notwithstanding  his  fine  rea- 
sonings, had  a  false  taste,  and  fixed  the  point  of  perfection 
much  nearer  the  extreme  of  refinement  than  pastoral  poetry 
will  admit  of.  The  sentiments  of  his  shepherds  are  better 
suited  to  the  toilettes  of  Paris  than  to  the  forests  of  Arcadia. 
But  this  it  is  impossible  to  discover  from  his  critical  reasonings. 
He  blames  all  excessive  painting  and  ornament  as  much  as 
Vergil  could  have  done,  had  that  great  poet  written  a  disserta- 
tion on  this  species  of  poetry.  However  different  the  tastes  of 
men  their  general  discourse  on  these  subjects  is  commonly  the 
same.  No  criticism  can  be  instructive  which  descends  not  to 
particulars,  and  is  not  full  of  examples  and  illustrations.  It  is 
allowed  on  all  hands  that  beauty,  as  well  as  virtue,  always  Hes 
in  a  medium ;  but  where  this  medium  is  placed  is  a  great  ques- 
tion, and  can  never  be  sufficiently  explained  by  general  reason- 
ings. 

III.  I  shall  deliver  on  this  subject :  That  we  ought  to  be  more 
on  our  guard  against  the  excess  of  refinement  than  that  of  sim- 
plicity ;  and  that  because  the  former  excess  is  both  less  beauti- 
ful and  more  dangerous  than  the  latter. 

It  is  a  certain  rule  that  wit  and  passion  are  entirely  incom- 
patible. When  the  affections  are  moved  there  is  no  place  for 
the  imagination.  The  mind  of  man  being  naturally  limited,  it 
is  impossible  that  all  its  faculties  can  operate  at  once:  and  the 
more  any  one  predominates,  the  less  room  is  there  for  the  others 
to  exert  their  vigor.     For  this  reason,  a  greater  simplicity  is 


298  HUME 

required  in  all  compositions,  where  men  and  actions  and  pas- 
sions are  painted,  than  in  such  as  consist  of  reflections  and 
observations.  And,  as  the  former  species  of  writing  is  the 
more  engaging  and  beautiful,  one  may  safely,  upon  this  ac- 
count, give  the  preference  to  the  extreme  of  simplicity  above 
that  of  refinement. 

We  may  also  observe  that  those  compositions  which  we  read 
the  oftenest,  and  which  every  man  of  taste  has  got  by  heart, 
have  the  recommendation  of  simplicity,  and  have  nothing  sur- 
prising in  the  thought,  when  divested  of  that  elegance  of  ex- 
pression, and  harmony  of  numbers,  with  which  it  is  clothed. 
If  the  merit  of  the  composition  lie  in  a  point  of  wit,  it  may 
strike  at  first ;  but  the  mind  anticipates  the  thought  in  the  sec- 
ond perusal,  and  is  no  longer  aflfected  by  it.  When  I  read  an 
epigram  of  Martial,  the  first  line  recalls  the  whole ;  and  I  have 
no  pleasure  in  repeating  to  myself  what  I  know  already.  But 
each  line,  each  word  in  Catullus,  has  its  merit ;  and  I  am  never 
tired  with  the  perusal  of  him.  It  is  sufficient  to  run  over  Cow- 
ley once ;  but  Parnel,  after  the  fiftieth  reading,  is  as  fresh  as  at 
the  first.  Besides,  it  is  with  books  as  with  women,  where  a 
certain  plainness  of  manner  and  of  dress  is  more  engaging,  than 
that  glare  of  paint,  and  airs,  and  apparel,  which  may  dazzle 
the  eye,  but  reaches  not  the  affections.  Terence  is  a  modest 
and  bashful  beauty,  to  whom  we  grant  everything,  because  he 
assumes  nothing,  and  whose  purity  and  nature  make  a  durable 
though  not  a  violent  impression  on  us. 

But  refinement,  as  it  is  the  less  beautiful,  so  is  it  the  more 
dangerous  extreme,  and  what  we  are  the  aptest  to  fall  into. 
Simplicity  passes  for  dulness,  when  it  is  not  accompanied  with 
great  elegance  and  propriety.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  some- 
thing surprising  in  a  blaze  of  wit  and  conceit.  Ordinary  read- 
ers are  mightily  struck  with  it,  and  falsely  imagine  it  to  be  the 
most  difficult,  as  well  as  most  excellent  way  of  writing.  Seneca 
abounds  with  agreeable  faults,  says  Quintilian,  "  ahundat  dul- 
cibus  vitiis";  and  for  that  reason  is  the  more  dangerous,  and 
the  more  apt  to  pervert  the  taste  of  the  young  and  the  incon- 
siderate. 

I  shall  add  that  the  excess  of  refinement  is  now  more  to  be 
guarded  against  than  ever;  because  it  is  the  extreme  which 
men  are  the  most  apt  to  fall  into,  after  learning  has  made  some 


OF  SIMPLICITY  AND   REFINEMENT   IN   WRITING    299 

progress,  and  after  eminent  writers  have  appeared  in  every 
species  of  composition.  The  endeavor  to  please  by  novelty 
leads  men  wide  of  simplicity  and  nature,  and  fills  their  writings 
with  affectation  and  conceit.  It  was  thus  the  Asiatic  eloquence 
degenerated  so  much  from  the  Attic.  It  was  thus  the  age  of 
Claudius  and  Nero  became  so  much  inferior  to  that  of  Augustus 
in  taste  and  genius.  And  perhaps  there  are  at  present  some 
symptoms  of  a  like  degeneracy  of  taste  in  France  as  well  as  in 
England. 


A    HUMORIST 


ON    RESERVE 


AN    OPINION    OF    GHOSTS 


ON    WRITING    AND    BOOKS 


BY 


WILLIAM    SHENSTONE 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE 
1714—1763 

William  Shenstone  was  born  at  Leasowes,  in  the  parish  of  Hales 
Owen,  Shropshire,  in  November,  1714.  He  was  taught  to  read  at  what 
is  termed  a  dame-school,  and  his  venerable  preceptress  has  been  im- 
mortalized by  his  poem  of  the  "  Schoolmistress."  In  the  year  1732 
he  was  sent  to  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  where  he  remained  four 
years.  In  1745  the  paternal  estate  fell  to  his  own  care  and  manage- 
ment, and  he  began  from  this  time,  as  Johnson  characteristically  de- 
scribes it,  "  to  point  his  prospects,  to  diversify  his  surface,  to  entangle 
his  walks,  and  to  wind  his  waters;  which  he  did  with  such  judgment 
and  fancy  as  made  his  little  domain  the  envy  of  the  great  and  the 
admiration  of  the  skilful ;  a  place  to  be  visited  by  travellers  and  copied 
by  designers."  Descriptions  of  the  Leasowes  have  been  written  by 
Dodsley  and  Goldsmith.  The  property  was  altogether  not  worth  more 
than  £300  per  annum,  and  Shenstone  had  devoted  so  much  of  his  means 
to  external  embellishment  that  he  was  compelled  to  live  in  a  dilapidated 
house,  not  fit,  as  he  acknowledges,  to  receive  "  polite  friends."  An 
unfortunate  attachment  to  a  young  lady,  and  disappointed  ambition — 
for  he  aimed  at  political  as  well  as  poetical  celebrity — conspired,  with 
his  passion  for  gardening  and  improvement,  to  fix  him  in  his  solitary 
situation.  He  became  querulous  and  dejected,  and  pined  at  the  un- 
equal gifts  of  fortune.  Yet  Shenstone  was  essentially  kind  and  benevo- 
lent, and  he  must  at  times  have  experienced  exquisite  pleasure  in  his 
romantic  retreat,  to  which  every  year  would  give  fresh  beauty,  and 
develop  more  distinctly  the  creations  of  his  taste  and  labor.  This 
advantage  he  possessed  with  the  additional  charm  of  a  love  of  literature ; 
but  Shenstone  sighed  for  more  than  inward  peace  and  satisfaction.  He 
built  his  happiness  on  the  applause  of  others,  and  died  in  solitude  a 
votary  of  the  world.  His  death  took  place  at  the  Leasowes,  February 
II,  1763. 

The  works  of  Shenstone  were  collected  and  published  after  his  death 
by  his  friend  Dodsley,  in  three  volumes.  The  first  contains  his  poems, 
the  second  his  prose  essays,  and  the  third  his  letters  and  other  pieces. 
Gray  remarks  of  his  correspondence,  that  it  is  "  about  nothing  else  but 
the  Leasowes,  and  his  writings  with  two  or  three  neighboring  clergy- 
men who  wrote  verses  too."  The  essays  are  good,  displaying  an  ease 
and  grace  of  style  united  to  judgment  and  discrimination.  They  have 
not  the  mellow  ripeness  of  thought  and  learning  of  Cowley's  essays, 
but  they  resemble  them  more  closely  than  any  others  we  possess.  In 
poetry,  Shenstone  tried  different  styles:  his  elegies  barely  reach  medi- 
ocrity; his  levities,  or  pieces  of  humor,  are  dull  and  spiritless.  His 
highest  effort  is  the  "  Schoolmistress,"  published  in  1742,  but  said  to 
be  "  written  at  college,  1736."  It  was  altered  and  enlarged  after  its 
first  publication.  This  poem  is  a  descriptive  sketch  in  imitation  of 
Spenser,  so  delightfully  quaint  and  ludicrous,  yet  true  to  nature,  that 
it  has  all  the  force  and  vividness  of  a  painting  by  Teniers  or  Wilkie. 
His  "  Pastoral  Ballad,"  in  four  parts,  is  also  the  finest  English  poem 
of  that  order.  The  four  essays  given  here  are  among  the  best  of  his 
prose  writings. 


302 


A  HUMORIST 

TO  form  an  estimate  of  the  proportion  which  one  man's 
happiness  bears  to  another's,  we  are  to  consider  the 
mind  that  is  allotted  him  with  as  much  attention  as  the 
circumstances.  It  were  superfluous  to  evince  that  the  same 
objects  which  one  despises  are  frequently  to  another  the  sub- 
stantial source  of  admiration.  The  man  of  business  and  the 
man  of  pleasure  are  to  each  other  mutually  contemptible ;  and 
a  blue  garter  has  less  charms  for  some  than  they  can  discover 
in  a  butterfly.  The  more  candid  and  sage  observer  condemns 
neither  for  his  pursuits;  but  for  the  derision  he  so  profusely 
lavishes  upon  the  disposition  of  his  neighbor.  He  concludes 
that  schemes  infinitely  various  were  at  first  intended  for  our 
pursuit  and  pleasures,  and  that  some  find  their  account  in  head- 
ing a  cry  of  hounds,  as  much  as  others  in  the  dignity  of  Lord 
Chief  Justice. 

Having  premised  thus  much,  I  proceed  to  give  some  account 
of  a  character  which  came  within  the  sphere  of  my  own  ob- 
servation. 

Not  the  entrance  of  a  cathedral,  not  the  sound  of  a  passing 
bell,  not  the  furs  of  a  magistrate,  nor  the  sables  of  a  funeral, 
were  fraught  with  half  the  solemnity  of  face ! 

Nay,  so  wonderfully  serious  was  he  observed  to  be  on  all 
occasions,  that  it  was  found  hardly  possible  to  be  otherwise 
in  his  company.  He  quashed  the  loudest  tempest  of  laughter, 
whenever  he  entered  the  room ;  and  men's  features,  though 
ever  so  much  roughened,  were  sure  to  grow  smooth  at  his  ap- 
proach. 

The  man  had  nothing  vicious,  or  even  ill-natured  in  his  char- 
acter; yet  he  was  the  dread  of  all  jovial  conversation;  the 
young,  the  gay,  found  their  spirits  fly  before  him.  Even  the 
kitten  and  the  puppy,  as  it  were  by  instinct,  would  forego  their 
frolics,  and  be  still.    The  depression  he  occasioned  was  like 

303 


304 


SHENSTONE 


that  of  a  damp  or  vitiated  air.  Unconscious  of  any  apparent 
cause,  you  found  your  spirits  sink  insensibly :  and  were  anyone 
to  sit  for  the  picture  of  ill-luck,  it  is  not  possible  the  painter 
could  select  a  more  proper  person. 

Yet  he  did  not  fail  to  boast  of  a  superior  share  of  reason, 
even  for  the  want  of  that  very  faculty,  risibility,  with  which  it 
is  supposed  to  be  always  joined. 

Indeed  he  acquired  the  character  of  the  most  ingenious  per- 
son of  his  county,  from  this  meditative  temper.  Not  that  he 
had  ever  made  any  great  discovery  of  his  talents;  but  a  few 
oracular  declarations,  joined  with  a  common  opinion  that  he 
was  writing  somewhat  for  posterity,  completed  his  reputation. 

Numbers  would  have  willingly  depreciated  his  character  had 
not  his  known  sobriety  and  reputed  sense  deterred  them. 

He  was  one  day  overheard  at  his  devotions,  returning  his 
most  fervent  thanks  for  some  particularities  in  his  situation, 
which  the  generality  of  mankind  would  have  but  little  re- 
garded. 

"  Accept,"  said  he,  "  the  gratitude  of  Thy  most  humble,  yet 
most  happy  creature,  not  for  silver  or  gold,  the  tinsel  of  man- 
kind, but  for  those  amiable  peculiarities  which  Thou  hast  so 
graciously  interwoven  both  with  my  fortune  and  my  complex- 
ion :  for  those  treasures  so  well  adapted  to  that  frame  of  mind 
Thou  hast  assigned  me. 

"  That  the  surname  which  has  descended  to  me  is  liable  to 
no  pun. 

"  That  it  runs  chiefly  upon  vowels  and  liquids. 

"  That  I  have  a  picturesque  countenance  rather  than  one 
that  is  esteemed  of  regular  features. 

"  That  there  is  an  intermediate  hill,  intercepting  my  view  of 
a  nobleman's  seat,  whose  ill-obtained  superiority  I  cannot  bear 
to  recollect. 

"  That  my  estate  is  overrun  with  brambles,  resounds  with 
cataracts,  and  is  beautifully  varied  with  rocks  and  precipices, 
rather  than  an  even  cultivated  spot,  fertile  of  corn,  or  wine,  or 
oil ;  or  those  kinds  of  productions  in  which  the  sons  of  men 
delight  themselves. 

"  That  as  Thou  dividest  Thy  bounties  impartially ;  giving 
riches  to  one,  and  the  contempt  of  riches  to  another,  so  Thou 
hast  given  me,  in  the  midst  of  poverty,  to  despise  the  insolence 


A   HUMORIST 


305 


of  riches,  and  by  declining  all  emulation  that  is  founded  upon 
wealth,  to  maintain  the  dignity  and  superiority  of  the  Muses. 

"  That  I  have  a  disposition  either  so  elevated  or  so  ingenu- 
ous that  I  can  derive  to  myself  amusement  from  the  very  ex- 
pedients and  contrivances  with  which  rigorous  necessity  fur- 
nishes my  invention. 

"  That  I  can  laugh  at  my  own  follies,  foibles,  and  infirmities ; 
and  that  I  do  not  want  infirmities  to  employ  this  disposition." 

This  poor  gentleman  caught  cold  one  winter's  night,  as  he 
was  contemplating,  by  the  side  of  a  crystal  stream,  by  moon- 
shine. This  afterwards  terminated  in  a  fever  that  was  fatal 
to  him.  Since  his  death  I  have  been  favored  with  the  inspec- 
tion of  his  poetry,  of  which  I  preserved  a  catalogue  for  the 
benefit  of  my  readers. 

OCCASIONAL    POEMS 

On  his  dog,  that  growing  corpulent,  refused  a  crust  when  it 
was  offered  him. 

To  the  memory  of  a  pair  of  breeches,  that  had  done  him  ex- 
cellent service. 

Having  lost  his  trusty  walking-staff,  he  complaineth. 

To  his  mistress,  on  her  declaring  that  she  loved  parsnips 
better  than  potatoes. 

On  an  ear-wig  that  crept  into  a  nectarine  that  it  might  be 
swallowed  by  Cloe. 

On  cutting  an  artichoke  in  his  garden  the  day  that  Queen 
Anne  cut  her  little  finger. 

Epigram  on  a  wooden  peg. 

Ode  to  the  memory  of  the  great  modern — who  first  invented 
shoe-buckles. 


14— Vol.  57 


ON   RESERVE 

TAKING  an  evening's  walk  with  a  friend  in  the  country, 
among  many  grave  remarks,  he  was  making  the  fol- 
lowing observation :  "  There  is  not,"  says  he,  "  any  one 
quality  so  inconsistent  with  respect  as  what  is  commonly  called 
familiarity.  You  do  not  find  one  in  fifty  whose  regard  is  proof 
against  it.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  insist  upon 
such  a  deference  as  will  render  you  ridiculous,  if  it  be  sup- 
ported by  common-sense.  Thus  much  at  least  is  evident,  that 
your  demands  will  be  so  successful  as  to  procure  a  greater  share 
than  if  you  had  made  no  such  demand.  I  may  frankly  own  to 
you,  Leander,  that  I  frequently  derived  uneasiness  from  a 
familiarity  with  such  persons  as  despised  everything  they  could 
obtain  with  ease.  Were  it  not  better  therefore  to  be  somewhat 
frugal  of  our  affability,  at  least  to  allot  it  only  to  few  persons 
of  discernment  who  can  make  the  proper  distinction  betwixt 
real  dignity  and  pretended :  to  neglect  those  characters  which, 
being  impatient  to  grow  familiar,  are  at  the  same  time  very  far 
from  familiarity-proof:  to  have  posthumous  fame  in  view, 
which  affords  us  the  most  pleasing  landscape:  to  enjoy  the 
amusement  of  reading,  and  the  consciousness  that  reading 
paves  the  way  to  general  esteem :  to  preserve  a  constant  regu- 
larity of  temper,  and  also  of  constitution,  for  the  most  part  but 
little  consistent  with  a  promiscuous  intercourse  with  men:  to 
shun  all  illiterate,  though  ever  so  jovial  assemblies,  insipid, 
perhaps,  when  present,  and  upon  reflection  painful :  to  meditate 
on  those  absent  or  departed  friends,  who  value  or  valued  us 
for  those  qualities  with  which  they  were  best  acquainted:  to 
partake  with  such  a  friend  as  you  the  delights  of  a  studious  and 
rational  retirement — are  not  these  the  paths  that  lead  to  hap- 
piness ?  " 

In  answer  to  this  (for  he  seemed  to  feel  some  late  mortifica- 
tion) I  observed  that  what  we  lost  by  familiarity  in  respect  was 

307 


3o8  SHENSTONE 

generally  made  up  to  us  by  the  affection  it  procured ;  and  that 
an  absolute  solitude  was  so  very  contrary  to  our  natures,  that 
were  he  excluded  from  society  but  for  a  single  fortnight,  he 
would  be  exhilarated  at  the  sight  of  the  first  beggar  that  he  saw. 

What  follows  were  thoughts  thrown  out  in  our  further  dis- 
course upon  the  subject ;  without  order  or  connection,  as  they 
occur  to  my  remembrance. 

Some  reserve  is  a  debt  to  prudence;  as  freedom  and  sim- 
plicity of  conversation  is  a  debt  to  good-nature. 

There  would  not  be  any  absolute  necessity  for  reserve,  if  the 
world  were  honest:  yet,  even  then,  it  would  prove  expedient. 
For,  in  order  to  attain  any  degree  of  deference,  it  seems  neces- 
sary that  people  should  imagine  you  have  more  accomplish- 
ments than  you  discover. 

It  is  on  this  depends  one  of  the  excellences  of  the  judicious 
Vergil.  He  leaves  you  something  ever  to  imagine:  and  such 
is  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind,  that  we  think  so  highly 
of  nothing  as  of  that  whereof  we  do  not  see  the  bounds.  This, 
as  Mr.  Burke  ingeniously  observes,  affords  the  pleasure  when 
we  survey  a  cylinder  ;^  and  Sir  John  Suckling  says : 

"  They  who  know  all  the  wealth  they  have  are  poor ; 
He's  only  rich  who  cannot  tell  his  store." 

A  person  who  would  secure  to  himself  great  deference  will, 
perhaps,  gain  his  point  by  silence  as  effectually  as  by  anything 
he  can  say. 

To  be,  however,  a  niggard  of  one's  observation  is  so  much 
worse  than  to  hoard  up  one's  money,  as  the  former  may  be  both 
imparted  and  retained  at  the  same  time. 

Men  oftentimes  pretend  to  proportion  their  respect  to  real 
desert;  but  a  supercilious  reserve  and  distance  weary  them 
into  a  compliance  with  more.  This  appears  so  very  manifest 
to  many  persons  of  the  lofty  character  that  they  use  no  better 
means  to  acquire  respect  than  like  highwaymen  to  make  a  de- 
mand of  it.  They  will,  like  Empedocles,  jump  into  the  fire 
rather  than  betray  the  mortal  part  of  their  character. 

It  is  from  the  same  principle  of  distance  that  nations  are 
brought  to  believe  that  their  great  duke  knoweth  all  things; 
as  is  the  case  in  some  countries. 

*  "  Treatise  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful." 


ON    RESERVE  309 

**  Men,  while  no  human  form  or  fault  they  see, 
Excuse  the  want  of  even  humanity  ; 
And  Eastern  kings,  who  vulgar  views  disdain, 
Require  no  worth  to  fix  their  awful  reign. 
You  cannot  say  in  truth  what  may  disgrace  them, 
You  know  in  what  predicament  to  place  them. 
Alas !  in  all  the  glare  of  light  revealed. 
Even  virtue  charms  us  less  than  vice  concealed ! 

*•  For  some  small  worth  he  had,  the  man  was  prized ; 
He  added  frankness — and  he  grew  despised." 

•  We  want  comets,  not  ordinary  planets : 
*  Tcedit  quotidianarum  harum  formarum*  " 

*'  Hunc  ccelum,  et  Stellas,  et  decendentia  certis 
Tempora  momentis,  sunt  qui  formidine  nulla 
Itnbuti  spec  tent." 

Virtues,  like  essences,  lose  their  fragrance  when  exposed. 
They  are  sensitive  plants,  which  will  not  bear  too  familiar  ap- 
proaches. 

Let  us  be  careful  to  distinguish  modesty,  which  is  ever  ami- 
able, from  reserve,  which  is  only  prudent.  A  man  is  hated 
sometimes  for  pride,  when  it  was  an  excess  of  humility  gave 
the  occasion. 

What  is  often  termed  shyness  is  nothing  more  than  refined 
sense,  and  an  indifference  to  common  observations. 

The  reserved  man's  intimate  acquaintance  are,  for  the  most 
part,  fonder  of  him  than  the  persons  of  a  more  affable  charac- 
ter, i.e.,  he  pays  them  a  greater  compliment  than  the  other  can 
do  his,  as  he  distinguishes  them  more. 

It  is  indolence,  and  the  pain  of  being  upon  one's  guard,  that 
makes  one  hate  an  artful  character. 

The  most  reserved  of  men,  who  would  not  exchange  two 
syllables  together  in  an  English  coffee-house,  should  they  meet 
at  Ispahan,  would  drink  sherbet  and  eat  a  mess  of  rice  to- 
gether. 

The  man  of  show  is  vain:  the  reserved  man  is  proud  more 
properly.  The  one  has  greater  depth :  the  other  a  more  lively 
imagination.  The  one  is  more  frequently  respected :  the  other 
more  generally  beloved.  The  one  a  Cato ;  the  other  a  Caesar. 
Vide  Sallust. 


3IO  SHENSTONE 

What  Caesar  said  of  " Rubicttpdos  amo;  pallidas  timeo'* 
may  be  applied  to  familiarity  and  reserve. 

A  reserved  man  often  makes  it  a  rule  to  leave  company  with 
a  good  speech :  and  I  believe  sometimes  proceeds  so  far  as  to 
leave  company  because  he  has  made  one.  Yet  it  is  fate  often, 
like  the  mole,  to  imagine  himself  deep  when  he  is  near  the  sur- 
face. 

Were  it  prudent  to  decline  this  reserve,  and  this  horror  of 
disclosing  foibles ;  to  give  up  a  part  of  character  to  secure  the 
rest?  The  world  will  certainly  insist  upon  having  some  part 
to  pull  to  pieces.  Let  us  throw  out  some  follies  to  the  envious ; 
as  we  give  up  counters  to  a  highwayman,  or  a  barrel  to  a  whale, 
in  order  to  save  one's  money  and  one's  ship:  to  let  it  make 
exceptions  to  one's  head  of  hair,  if  one  can  escape  being  stabbed 
in  the  heart. 

The  reserved  man  should  drink  double  glasses. 

Prudent  men  lock  up  their  motives ;  letting  familiars  have  a 
key  to  their  heart  as  to  their  garden. 

A  reserved  man  is  in  continual  conflict  with  the  social  part  of 
his  nature ;  and  even  grudges  himself  the  laugh  into  which  he 
is  sometimes  betrayed. 

"  Seldom  he  smiles — 
And  smiles  in  such  a  sort  as  he  disdained 
Himself — that  could  be  moved  to  smile  at  anything.** 

"  A  fool  and  his  words  are  soon  parted ; "  for  so  should  the 
proverb  run. 

Common  understanding,  like  cits  in  gardening,  allow  no 
shades  to  their  picture. 

Modesty  often  passes  for  errant  haughtiness:  as  what  is 
deemed  spirit  in  a  horse  proceeds  from  fear. 

The  higher  character  a  person  supports,  the  more  he  should 
regard  his  minutest  actions. 

The  reserved  man  should  bring  a  certificate  of  his  honesty, 
before  he  be  admitted  into  company. 

Reserve  is  no  more  essentially  connected  with  understand- 
ing than  a  church  organ  with  devotion,  or  wine  with  good- 
nature. 


AN  OPINION  OF  GHOSTS 

IT  is  remarkable  how  much  the  beUef  of  ghosts  and  appari- 
tions of  persons  departed  has  lost  ground  within  these 
fifty  years.  This  may  perhaps  be  explained  by  the  gen- 
eral growth  of  knowledge,  and  by  the  consequent  decay  of 
superstition,  even  in  those  kingdoms  where  it  is  most  essen- 
tially interwoven  with  religion. 

The  same  credulity  which  disposed  the  mind  to  believe  the 
miracles  of  a  popish  saint  set  aside  at  once  the  interposition  of 
reason,  and  produced  a  fondness  for  the  marvellous,  which  it 
was  the  priest's  advantage  to  promote. 

It  may  be  natural  enough  to  suppose  that  a  belief  of  this 
kind  might  spread  in  the  days  of  popish  infatuation.  A  belief, 
as  much  supported  by  ignorance,  as  the  ghosts  themselves  were 
indebted  to  the  night. 

But  whence  comes  it  that  narratives  of  this  kind  have  at 
any  time  been  given  by  persons  of  veracity,  of  judgment,  and 
of  learning — men  neither  liable  to  be  deceived  themselves,  nor 
to  be  suspected  of  an  inclination  to  deceive  others,  though  it 
were  their  interest ;  nor  who  could  be  supposed  to  have  any 
interest  in  it,  even  though  it  were  their  inclination? 

Here  seems  a  further  explanation  wanting  than  what  can 
be  drawn  from  superstition. 

I  go  upon  a  supposition  that  the  relations  themselves  were 
false.  For  as  to  the  arguments  sometimes  used  in  this  case, 
that  had  there  been  no  true  shilling  there  had  been  no  counter- 
feit, it  seems  wholly  a  piece  of  sophistry.  The  true  shilling 
here  should  mean  the  living  person;  and  the  counterfeit  re- 
semblance, the  posthumous  figure  of  him  that  either  strikes 
our  senses  or  our  imagination. 

Supposing  no  ghost  then  ever  appeared,  is  it  a  consequence 
that  no  man  could  ever  imagine  that  they  saw  the  figure  of  a 

511 


312  SHENSTONE 

person  deceased?     Surely  those  who  say  this  little  know  the 
force,  the  caprice,  or  the  defects  of  the  imagination. 

Persons  after  a  debauch  of  liquor,  or  under  the  influence  of 
terror,  or  in  the  deliria  of  a  fever,  or  in  a  fit  of  lunacy,  or  even 
walking  in  their  sleep,  have  had  their  brain  as  deeply  impressed 
with  chimerical  representations  as  they  could  possibly  have  been 
had  their  representations  struck  their  senses. 

I  have  mentioned  but  a  few  instances  wherein  the  brain  is 
primarily  affected.  Others  may  be  given,  perhaps  not  quite  so 
common,  where  the  stronger  passions,  either  acute  or  chroni- 
cal, have  impressed  their  object  upon  the  brain ;  and  this  in  so 
lively  a  manner  as  to  leave  the  visionary  no  room  to  doubt  of 
their  real  presence. 

How  difficult  then  must  it  be  to  undeceive  a  person  as  to 
objects  thus  imprinted!  imprinted  absolutely  with  the  same 
force  as  their  eyes  themselves  could  have  portrayed  them !  and 
how  many  persons  must  there  needs  be  who  could  never  be 
undeceived  at  all ! 

Some  of  these  causes  might  not  improbably  have  given  rise 
to  the  notion  of  apparitions ;  and  when  the  notion  had  been  once 
promulgated,  it  had  a  natural  tendency  to  produce  more  in- 
stances. 

The  gloom  of  night,  that  was  productive  of  terror,  would  be 
naturally  productive  of  apparitions.     The  event  confirmed  it. 

The  passion  of  grief  for  a  departed  friend,  of  horror  for  a 
murdered  enemy,  of  remorse  for  a  wronged  testator,  of  love 
for  a  mistress  killed  by  inconstancy,  of  gratitude  to  a  wife  of 
long  fidelity,  of  desire  to  be  reconciled  to  one  who  died  at  vari- 
ance, of  impatience  to  vindicate  what  was  falsely  construed,  of 
propensity  to  consult  with  an  adviser  that  is  lost — the  more 
faint  as  well  as  the  more  powerful  passions,  when  bearing  re- 
lation to  a  person  deceased,  have  often,  I  fancy,  with  concurrent 
circumstances,  been  sufficient  to  exhibit  the  dead  to  the  living. 

But,  what  is  more,  there  seems  no  other  account  that  is  ade- 
quate to  the  case  as  I  have  stated  it.  Allow  this,  and  you  have 
at  once  a  reason  why  the  most  upright  may  have  published  a 
falsehood,  and  the  most  judicious  confirmed  an  absurdity. 

Supposing  then  that  apparitions  of  this  kind  may  have  some 
real  use  in  God's  moral  government :  is  not  any  moral  purpose, 
for  which  they  may  be  employed,  as  effectually  answ.ered  on  my 


AN  OPINION  OF   GHOSTS  313 

supposition,  as  the  other?  for  surely  it  cannot  be  of  any  im- 
portance, by  what  means  the  brain  receives  these  images.  The 
effect,  the  conviction,  and  the  resolution  consequent,  may  be 
just  the  same  in  either  of  the  cases. 

Such  appears,  to  me  at  least,  to  be  the  true  existence  of  ap- 
paritions. 

The  reasons  against  any  external  apparition,  among  others 
that  may  be  brought,  are  these  that  follow : 

They  are,  I  think,  never  seen  by  day ;  and  darkness  being  the 
season  of  terror  and  uncertainty,  and  the  imagination  less  re- 
strained, they  are  never  visible  to  more  than  one  person :  which 
had  more  probably  been  the  case  were  not  the  vision  internal. 

They  have  not  been  reported  to  have  appeared  these  twenty 
years.  What  cause  can  be  assigned,  were  their  existence  real, 
for  so  great  a  change  as  their  discontinuance  ? 

The  cause  of  superstition  has  lost  ground  for  this  last  cen- 
tury :  the  notion  of  ghosts  has  been  altogether  exploded :  a  rea- 
son why  the  imagination  should  be  less  prone  to  conceive  them ; 
but  not  a  reason  why  they  themselves  should  cease. 

Most  of  those  who  relate  that  these  spectres  have  appeared  to 
them  have  been  persons  either  deeply  superstitious  in  other  re- 
spects ;  of  enthusiastic  imaginations,  or  strong  passions,  which 
are  the  consequence ;  or  else  have  allowedly  felt  some  perturba- 
tion at  the  time. 

Some  few  instances  may  be  supposed,  where  the  caprice  of 
imagination,  so  very  remarkable  in  dreams,  may  have  presented 
phantasms  to  those  that  waked.  I  believe  there  are  few  but 
can  recollect  some,  wherein  it  has  wrought  mistakes,  at  least 
equal  to  that  of  a  white  horse  for  a  winding-sheet. 

To  conclude.  As  my  hypothesis  supposes  the  chimera  to  give 
terror  equal  to  the  reality,  our  best  means  of  avoiding  it  is  to 
keep  a  strict  guard  over  our  passions,  to  avoid  intemperance 
as  we  would  a  charnel-house,  and,  by  making  frequent  appeals 
to  cool  reason  and  common-sense,  secure  to  ourselves  the  prop- 
erty of  a  well-regulated  imagination. 


ON  WRITING  AND   BOOKS 

FINE   writing   is   generally   the   effect   of   spontaneous 
thoughts  and  a  labored  style. 

Long  sentences  in  a  short  composition  are  like  large 
rooms  in  a  little  house. 

The  world  may  be  divided  into  people  that  read,  people  that 
write,  people  that  think,  and  fox-hunters. 

Superficial  writers,  like  the  mole,  often  fancy  themselves 
deep,  when  they  are  exceeding  near  the  surface. 

There  is  no  word  in  the  Latin  language  that  signifies  a  female 
friend.  "  Arnica  "  means  a  mistress ;  and  perhaps  there  is  nc 
friendship  betwixt  the  sexes  wholly  disunited  from  a  degree  of 
love. 

The  chief  advantage  that  ancient  writers  can  boast  over  mod- 
ern ones  seems  owing  to  simplicity.  Every  noble  truth  and 
sentiment  was  expressed  by  the  former  in  the  natural  manner ; 
in  word  and  phrase,  simple,  perspicuous,  and  incapable  of  im- 
provement. What  then  remained  for  later  writers  but  affecta- 
tion, witticism,  and  conceit  ? 

Perhaps  an  acquaintance  with  men  of  genius  is  rather  repu- 
table than  satisfactory.  It  is  as  unaccountable,  as  it  is  certain, 
that  fancy  heightens  sensibility ;  sensibility  strengthens  passion ; 
and  passion  makes  people  humorists. 

Yet  a  person  of  genius  is  often  expected  to  show  more  dis- 
cretion than  another  man;  and  this  on  account  of  that  very 
vivacity  which  is  his  greatest  impediment.  This  happens  for 
want  of  distinguishing  betwixt  the  fanciful  talents  and  the  dry 
mathematical  operations  of  the  judgment,  each  of  which  in- 
discriminately gives  the  denomination  of  a  man  of  genius. 

People  in  high  or  in  distinguished  life  ought  to  have  a  greater 
circumspection  in  regard  to  their  most  trivial  actions.  For  in- 
stance, I  saw  Mr.  Pope — and  what  was  he  doing  when  you  saw 
him  ? — why,  to  the  best  of  my  memory,  he  was  picking  his  nose. 

315 


3i6  SHENSTONE 

It  is  obvious  to  discover  that  imperfections  of  one  kind  have 
a  visible  tendency  to  produce  perfections  of  another.  Mr. 
Pope's  bodily  disadvantages  inclined  him  to  a  more  labori- 
ous cultivation  of  his  talent,  without  which  he  foresaw  that  he 
must  have  languished  in  obscurity.  The  advantages  of  person 
are  a  good  deal  essential  to  popularity  in  the  grave  world  as 
well  as  the  gay.  Mr.  Pope,  by  an  unwearied  application  to 
poetry,  became  not  only  the  favorite  of  the  learned,  but  also  of 
the  ladies. 

Pope's  talent  lay  remarkably  in  what  one  may  naturally 
enough  term  the  condensation  of  thoughts.  I  think  no  other 
English  poet  ever  brought  so  much  sense  into  the  same  number 
of  lines  with  equal  smoothness,  ease,  and  poetical  beauty.  Let 
him  who  doubts  of  this  peruse  his  "  Essay  on  Man  "  with  at- 
tention. Perhaps  this  was  a  talent  from  which  he  could  not 
easily  have  swerved :  perhaps  he  could  not  have  sufficiently 
rarefied  his  thoughts  to  produce  that  flimsiness  which  is  required 
in  a  ballad  or  love-song.  His  monster  of  Ragusa  and  his  trans- 
lations from  Chaucer  have  some  little  tendency  to  invalidate 
this  observation. 

The  plan  of  Spenser's  "  Faerie  Queene  "  appears  to  me  very 
imperfect.  His  imagination,  though  very  extensive,  is  some- 
what less  so,  perhaps,  than  is  generally  allowed;  if  one  con- 
siders the  facility  of  realizing  and  equipping  forth  the  virtues 
and  vices.  His  metre  has  some  advantages,  though,  in  many 
respects,  exceptionable.  His  good-nature  is  visible  through 
every  part  of  his  poem.  His  conjunction  of  the  pagan  and 
Christian  scheme  (as  he  introduced  the  deities  of  both  acting 
simultaneously)  is  wholly  inexcusable.  Much  art  and  judg- 
ment are  discovered  in  parts,  and  but  little  in  the  whole.  One 
may  entertain  some  doubt  whether  the  perusal  of  his  monstrous 
descriptions  be  not  as  prejudicial  to  true  taste,  as  it  is  advan- 
tageous to  the  extent  of  imagination.  Spenser,  to  be  sure, 
expands  the  last;  but  then  he  expands  it  beyond  its  due  limits. 
After  all,  there  are  many  favorite  passages  in  his  "  Faerie 
Queene,"  which  will  be  instances  of  a  great  and  cultivated 
genius  misapplied. 

Boileau  has  endeavored  to  prove,  in  one  of  his  admirable 
satires,  that  man  has  no  manner  of  pretence  to  prefer  his  facul- 
ties before  those  of  the  brute  creation.     Oldham  has  translated 


ON   WRITING  AND   BOOKS 


317 


him :  my  Lord  Rochester  has  imitated  him :  and  even  Mr.  Pope 
declares 

"  That,  reason  raise  o'er  instinct  how  you  can, 
In  this  'tis  God  directs:  in  that  'tis  man." 

Indeed,  the  "  Essay  on  Man  "  abounds  with  illustrations  of 
this  maxim ;  and  it  is  amazing  to  find  how  many  plausible 
reasons  may  be  urged  to  support  it.  It  seems  evident  that 
our  itch  of  reasoning  and  spirit  of  curiosity  preclude  more 
happiness  than  they  can  possibly  advance.  What  numbers  of 
diseases  are  entirely  artificial  things,  far  from  the  ability  of  a 
brute  to  contrive!  We  disrelish  and  deny  ourselves  cheap 
and  natural  gratifications,  through  speculative  presciences  and 
doubts  about  the  future.  We  cannot  discover  the  designs  of 
our  Creator.  We  should  learn  then  of  brutes  to  be  easy  under 
our  ignorance,  and,  happy  in  those  objects  that  seem  intended, 
obviously,  for  our  happiness,  not  overlook  the  flowers  of  the 
garden,  and  foolishly  perplex  ourselves  with  the  intricacies  of 
the  labyrinth. 


ON    NORMAN    ARCHITECTURE 

ON    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    LORD 
BOLINGBROKE 

BY 

THOMAS    GRAY 


THOMAS  GRAY 
1716— 1771 

The  poet,  Thomas  Gray,  was  a  man  of  vast  and  varied  acquire- 
ments, whose  life  was  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  letters.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  respectable  London  money-scrivener,  but  his  father  was 
a  man  of  violent  and  arbitrary  character,  and  the  poet  was  early  left 
to  the  tender  care  of  an  excellent  mother,  who  had  been  obliged  to 
separate  from  her  tyrannical  husband.  He  received  his  education  at 
Eton,  and  afterwards  settled  in  learned  retirement  at  Cambridge,  where 
he  passed  nearly  the  whole  of  his  life.  He  travelled  in  France  and 
Italy  as  tutor  to  Horace  Walpole,  but  quarrelling  with  his  pupil  he 
returned  home  alone.  Fixing  himself  at  Cambridge,  he  soon  acquired 
a  high  poetical  reputation  by  his  beautiful  "  Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect 
of  Eton  College,"  published  in  1747,  which  was  followed,  at  rather 
long  intervals,  by  his  other  imposing  and  highly  finished  works,  the 
"  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,"  the  "  Pindaric  Odes,"  and 
the  far  from  numerous  but  splendid  productions  which  make  up  his 
works.  His  quiet  and  studious  retirement  was  only  broken  by  occa- 
sional excursions  to  the  north  of  England,  and  other  holiday  journeys, 
of  which  he  has  given  in  his  letters  so  vivid  and  animated  a  descrip- 
tion. His  correspondence  with  his  friends,  and  particularly  with  the 
poet  Mason,  is  remarkable  for  interesting  details,  descriptions,  and 
reflections,  and  is  indeed,  like  that  of  Cowley,  among  the  most  delight- 
ful records  of  a  thoughtful  and  literary  life.  Gray  refused  the  offer 
of  the  laureateship,  which  was  proposed  to  him  on  the  death  of  Cibber, 
but  accepted  the  appointment  of  professor  of  modern  history  in  the 
university,  though  he  never  performed  the  functions  of  that  chair,  his 
fastidious  temper  and  indolent  self-indulgence  keeping  him  perpetually 
engaged  in  forming  vast  literary  projects  which  he  never  executed. 
He  appears  not  to  have  been  popular  among  his  colleagues ;  his  haughty, 
retiring,  and  somewhat  effeminate  character  prevented  him  from  sym- 
pathizing with  the  tastes  and  studies  that  prevailed  there ;  and  he  was 
at  little  pains  to  conceal  his  contempt  for  academical  society. 

His  industry  was  untiring,  and  his  acquirements  undoubtedly  im- 
mense; for  he  had  pushed  his  researches  far  beyond  the  usual  limits 
of  ancient  classical  philology,  and  was  not  only  deeply  versed  in  the 
romance  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  modern  French  and  Italian, 
but  had  studied  the  then  almost  unknown  departments  of  Scandinavian 
and  Celtic  poetry.  Constant  traces  may  be  found  in  all  his  works  of 
the  degree  to  which  he  had  assimilated  the  spirit,  not  only  of  the 
Greek  lyric  poetry,  but  the  finest  perfume  of  the  great  Italian  writers: 
many  passages  of  his  works  are  a  kind  of  mosaic  of  thought  and 
imagery  borrowed  from  Pindar,  from  the  choral  portions  of  the  Attic 
tragedy,  and  from  the  majestic  lyrics  of  the  Italian  poets  of  the  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  centuries;  but  though  the  substance  of  these 
mosaics  may  be  borrowed  from  a  multitude  of  sources,  the  fragments 
are,  so  to  say,  fused  into  one  solid  body  by  the  intense  flame  of  a 
powerful  and  fervent  imagination.  His  essays  "  On  Norman  Archi- 
tecture "  and  "  On  the  Philosophy  of  Lord  Bolingbroke  "  show  the 
extent  of  his  technical  knowledge  and  his  finished  style. 


320 


ON   NORMAN   ARCHITECTURE 

THE  characteristics  of  the  old  Norman  or  (as  Sir  Chris- 
topher Wren  calls  it)  Saxon  architecture  are  great 
solidity,  heaviness,  and  rude  simplicity,  better  adapted 
to  castles,  walls  of  cities,  and  other  places  of  defence,  than  to  the 
purposes  of  habitation,  magnificence,  or  religious  worship.  It 
seems  indeed  to  be  copied  from  the  Roman  style  in  that  degener- 
ate state  to  which  it  was  reduced  under  the  later  emperors ;  for 
it  seems  but  natural  that  the  Franks  ^  in  Gaul,  the  Saxons  in 
England,  and  other  barbarous  nations  in  the  several  countries 
which  had  made  a  part  of  the  Roman  empire  (when  they  were 
once  settled  there,  and  found  leisure  to  apply  themselves  to  the 
arts  of  peace)  should  imitate  those  many  monuments  which  were 
everywhere  before  their  eyes,  and  especially  (as  they  themselves 
were  now  become  Christians)  such  as  had  been  long  consecrated 
to  the  uses  of  religion,  and  were  filled  with  the  miraculous  relics 
and  representations  of  those  saints  who  were  the  principal  ob- 
jects of  their  worship.  It  may  be  asked,  why  then  did  they  not 
rather  imitate  the  beautiful  remains  of  a  better  age,  of  which 
many  were  then  in  being,  as  some  of  them  exist  to  this  day?  I 
answer,  because  taste  had  nothing  to  do  in  their  choice ;  because 
the  fabrics  erected  in  the  time  and  for  the  purpose  of  Christian- 
ity had  a  nearer  connection  with  their  own  faith ;  and  lastly, 
because  the  artisans  employed  in  them  were  probably  their  sub- 
jects and  natives  of  the  country,  who  received  these  arts  by  tra- 
dition from  their  fathers,  and  were  unaccustomed  to  any  other 
style  of  building. 

The  particulars  which  distinguish  this  kind  of  architecture, 
which  seems  to  have  lasted  in  England  from  the  time  of  the 
Conquest  (if  not  earlier)  to  the  beginning  of  Henry  Ill's  reign, 
that  is,  from  a.  d.  1066  to  about  1216,  are  chiefly  these: 

1  Including  the  Normans,  who  soon   learned   the  language  and  customs  of  the 
Franks. 

321 


322  GRAY 

First  distmction.  The  semicircular,  or  round-headed,^  arch, 
generally,  if  not  always,  used  in  the  three  orders  which  com- 
monly compose  the  nave,  namely,  the  lower  great  one  that  opens 
to  the  side  ailes;  the  second,  which  runs  in  front  of  the  two 
corridors  over  those  ailes ;  and  the  uppermost,  which  forms  a 
sort  of  arcade  before  the  higher  range  of  windows.  The  doors, 
the  vault  of  the  ailes,  and  even  the  windows,  are  in  this  form 
too,  and  the  arch  is  usually  wide  beyond  the  just  proportion 
of  its  height. 

The  same  arching  is  frequently  used  to  cover  the  long  vacancy 
of  a  dead  wall,  and  forms  an  arcade  adhering  to  it  with  tall 
clumsy  -  pillars  and  extraordinary  intercolumns ;  and  for  a 
like  purpose  they  frequently  employed  a  wider  arch-work  ris- 
ing on  short  columns  and  interlaced,  so  that  the  curve  of  one 
arch  intersecting  that  of  its  neighbor,  their  pillars  or  legs  stand 
at  only  half  the  distance  from  each  other  that  they  otherwise 
would  do.  This,  though  only  an  ornament,  might  perhaps  sug- 
gest the  idea  of  building  on  pointed  arches,  afterwards  in  use, 
as  the  intersection  of  two  circular  ones  produces  the  same  effect 
to  the  eye. 

Second  distinction.  The  massy  piers,  or  pillars,  either  of  an 
octagonal,  round,  or  elliptical  form,  on  which  the  arches  rise. 
They  are  sometimes  decagons,  or  duodecagons,  or  even  a  mix- 
ture of  all  these,  without  any  correspondence  or  regularity  at 
all,  as  in  the  choir  at  Peterborough:  their  height  is  generally 
far  too  short  for  their  diameter,  which  gives  them  the  appear- 
ance of  great  strength  joined  with  heaviness.  This  latter  fault 
seems  to  have  struck  even  the  eyes  of  that  age  itself,  and,  to 
conceal  it,  they  added  a  flat  pilaster  on  four  sides  of  the  pier, 
with  a  slender  half-column  projecting  from  it;  or  (to  lighten 
it  still  more)  covered  the  pier  almost  entirely  with  clustered 
pillars  of  small  diameter,  adhering  to  its  surface,  which  in  real- 
ity bear  little  or  nothing  of  the  weight,  and  serve  merely  for 
ornament.    This  latter  had  so  good  an  effect,  that  it  was  adopted 

>  I  cannot  absolutely  affirm  that  they  tions  and  additions  made  in  succeeding 
never  made  use  of  the  pointed  arch,  ages,  which,  I  am  persuaded,  was  a 
because  the  great  western  tower  at  Ely  common  practice  with  regard  to  win- 
now rises  upon  four  sucli  arches;  some  dows,  in  order  to  let  in  more  light,  and 
of  the  ranges,  too,  which  adorn  the  also  to  take  off  from  the  plain  and  heavy 
outside  of  this  and  the  galilee  adjoin-  appearance  of  those  thick  walls. 
ing,  are  of  like  form,  and  the  grand  ^  xhey  have  no  swell,  nor  gradual 
arches  in  front  under  the  middle  tower  diminution,  which  seems  to  be  the  cause 
of  Peterborough  are  pointed:  but  yet  I  of  this  clumsy  appearance;  besides  this, 
do   suspect   that   all    these   were   altera-  they  stand  too  close  together. 


ON   NORMAN   ARCHITECTURE  333 

by  all  architects  of  succeeding  times,  and  continued  till  the 
revival  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  style.  There  are  very  ancient 
examples  of  these  cluster-piers  to  be  seen,  sometimes  intermixed 
alternately  with  the  plainer  kind,  as  at  Durham;  sometimes 
interspersed  among  them,  as  it  were  by  chance,  as  at  Peter- 
borough ;  and  sometimes  alone  and  unmixed,  as  in  the  views 
of  old  St.  Paul's,  and  at  Ely.  From  the  capital  of  the  piers 
usually  rises  a  half-column  of  but  small  diameter,  which,  passing 
between  the  arches  of  the  two  upper  orders  in  the  nave  or  choir, 
etc.,  reaches  quite  up  to  the  roof,  and  is  a  principal  grace  of 
these  buildings. 

On  the  outside,  as  they  have  no  buttresses,  which  were  the 
invention  of  later  ages,  the  walls  are  commonly  adorned  either 
with  half-columns  or  with  flat  stripes  of  stone-work,  resembling 
a  plain  pilaster,  at  regular  distances. 

Third  distinction.  The  capitals  of  the  piers  and  smaller 
columns  have  great  variety  in  their  forms ;  the  square,  the  octa- 
gon, the  cushioned,  or  swelling  beneath,  with  four  flat  faces  cut 
in  a  semicircle,  the  convex  part  downward,  and  sometimes 
adorned  ^  with  a  mantling,  or  piece  of  drapery  trussed  like  a 
festoon.  Some  of  the  large  ones  there  are  which,  swelling  like 
the  last  underneath,  break  above  *  into  eight  or  sixteen  angular 
projections,  something  like  the  rostrum  of  an  antique  ship. 
Others  are  rounds  and  decked  with  an  awkward  imitation  ^  of 
acanthus  leaves,  curling  at  the  point  into  a  sort  of  volutes. 
These,  and  many  other  uncouth  forms  and  inventions,  may  be 
seen  in  the  arcade  of  the  side  ailes  at  Peterborough,  where  they 
have  studied  to  vary  all  the  capitals,  as  far  as  their  art  reached, 
and  seem  to  have  thought  there  was  a  beauty  in  this  confusion : 
they  are  all  in  general  too  squat  and  too  gross  for  the  pillars 
which  they  are  meant  to  adorn,  not  to  mention  the  rudeness 
they  have  in  common  with  every  other  member  of  these  build- 
ings, that  required  any  sculpture  or  delicacy  of  workman- 
ship. 

Fourth  distinction.  The  ceilings,  at  least  in  the  wider  and 
loftier  parts,  as  of  the  nave,  choir,  and  transepts,  etc.,  were  usu- 
ally, I  imagine,  only  of  timber,  perhaps  because  they  wanted 
the  skill  to  vault  with  stone  in  these  great  intervals,  though  they 

*  At  Durham.  ^  In   the  prebend's   narrow   way,   and 

*In  the  choir  at  Peterborough.  the  south  transept  at  Ely. 


324  GRAY 

practised  it  in  the  smaller.  They  are  either  entirely  flat,  as  at 
Peterborough,  or  gable-fashioned  with  rafters,  as  in  the  tran- 
septs at  Ely,  or  covered  with  frame-work  made  of  small  scant- 
lings of  wood,  and  lying  open  to  the  leads,  as  in  the  nave  of  the 
same  church. 

Fifth  distinction.  The  ornaments,  which  are  chiefly  mould- 
ings in  front  of  the  arches,  and  fasciae  or  broad  lists  of  carving, 
which  run  along  the  walls  over  them  or  beneath  the  windows, 
are  without  any  neatness,  and  full  as  clumsy  as  the  capitals 
above  mentioned ;  the  most  frequent  of  them  is  the  zig-zag,  or 
chevron-work.  There  are  also  billeted-moulding,  the  nail-head, 
as  in  the  great  tower  at  Hereford  and  in  the  pendants  of  arches 
in  the  nave  of  old  St.  Paul's,  resembling  the  heads  of  large  nails 
drove  in  at  regular  distances ;  the  nebule,"  which  I  call  by  that 
name  from  its  likeness  to  a  coat  nebule  in  heraldry;  and  the 
lozenge  and  triangle  lattice-work.  These,  with  the  ranges  ol 
arch-work  rising  one  over  another,  with  which  they  decorated 
the  fronts  of  buildings  and  the  sides  of  their  towers  on  the  out- 
side, are  the  principal  inventions  which  they  employed  for  orna- 
ment. As  to  statues,'  niches,®  canopies,  finials,  and  tracery, 
they  were  the  improvements  of  another  age. 

Such  are  the  most  obvious  distinctions  of  this  early  style  ol 
building.  An  accurate  inspection  of  those  remains,  which  have 
their  dates  well  ascertained,  might  possibly  discover  many  other 
particulars,  and  also  show  us  the  gradual  advances  of  the  art 
within  the  period  which  I  have  assigned ;  for  it  is  not  to  be 
imagined  that  all  the  forms  which  I  have  described  made  their 
appearance  at  one  and  the  same  time,  or  that  the  buildings,  for 
example,  in  the  first  years  of  Henry  H  were  exactly  like  those 
erected  in  the  end  of  his  reign.  Any  eye  may  perceive  the 
difference  between  the  body  and  ailes  of  the  choir  at  Peter- 
borough with  the  east  side  of  the  transept,  and  the  semi- 
circular tribune  which  finishes  the  same  choir,  the  two  ends 
and  west  side  of  the  transept,  and  the  whole  nave  of  the  church : 

•Under  the  highest  range  of  windows  puted;  for  example,  that  of  King  Ethel- 

on  the  outside  of  Peterborough  Cathe-  bald  on  Crowland  Bridge,  of  King  Osric 

dral,   and   elsewhere.  at    Worcester,   of   Robert   Courthose   at 

'  There   may   be   some   figures   extant  Gloucester,   etc. 

in    England,    in    stone    or    wood,    older  *  These    niches,    when    they    had    the 

than  the  period  which  I   have  here  as-  figure  of  any  saint  in  them,  were  called 

signed,   but  they   made  no  part   of  the  perks,  whence  comes  our  old  phrase  of 

architect's   design,   and   even   on    sepul-  being  perked  up,  or  exposed  to  public 

chral  monuments  are  very  rare;  besides  view, 
that  their  originality  may  well   be  dis- 


ON  NORMAN  ARCHITECTURE  325 

yet  all  these  were  built  within  the  compass  of  five-and-thirty 
years  by  two  successive  abbots. 

Upon  the  whole,  these  huge  structures  claim  not  only  the 
veneration  due  to  their  great  antiquity,  but  (though  far  sur- 
passed in  beauty  by  the  buildings  of  the  three  succeeding  cen- 
turies) have  really  a  rude  kind  of  majesty,  resulting  from  the 
loftiness  of  their  naves,  the  gloom  of  their  ailes,  and  the  huge- 
ness of  their  massive  members,  which  seem  calculated  for  a 
long  duration. 


ON  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LORD 
BOLINGBROKE 

I  WILL  allow  Lord  Bolingbroke  that  the  moral,  as  well  as 
physical,  attributes  of  God  must  be  known  to  us  only  a 
posteriori,  and  that  this  is  the  only  real  knowledge  we  can 
have  either  of  the  one  or  the  other ;  I  will  allow  too  that  per- 
haps it  may  be  an  idle  distinction  which  we  make  between  them : 
His  moral  attributes  being  as  much  in  his  nature  and  essence  as 
those  we  call  his  physical ;  but  the  occasion  of  our  making  some 
distinction  is  plainly  this:  His  eternity,  infinity,  omniscience, 
and  almighty  power,  are  not  what  connect  him,  if  I  may  so 
speak,  with  us  his  creatures.  We  adore  him,  not  because  he 
always  did  in  every  place,  and  always  will,  exist ;  but  because 
he  gave,  and  still  preserves  to  us  our  own  existence  by  an 
exertion  of  his  goodness.  We  adore  him,  not  because  he 
knows  and  can  do  all  things,  but  because  he  made  us  capable 
of  knowing  and  of  doing  what  may  conduct  us  to  happiness.  It 
is  therefore  his  benevolence  which  we  adore,  not  his  greatness 
or  power ;  and  if  we  are  made  only  to  bear  our  part  in  a  sys- 
tem, without  any  regard  to  our  own  particular  happiness,  we 
can  no  longer  worship  him  as  our  all-bounteous  parent.  There 
is  no  meaning  in  the  term.  The  idea  of  his  malevolence  (an  im- 
piety I  tremble  to  write)  must  succeed.  We  have  nothing  left 
but  our  fears,  and  those  too  vain;  for  whither  can  they  lead 
but  to  despair  and  the  sad  desire  of  annihilation?  "  If  then, 
justice  and  goodness  be  not  the  same  in  God  as  in  our  ideas,  we 
mean  nothing  when  we  say  that  God  is  necessarily  just  and 
good ;  and  for  the  same  reason  it  may  as  well  be  said  that  we 
know  not  what  we  mean  when,  according  to  Dr.  Clarke  (Evid, 
26th),  we  affirm  that  he  is  necessarily  a  wise  and  intelligent 
Being."  What  then  can  Lord  Bolingbroke  mean,  when  he  says 
everything  shows  the  wisdom  of  God ;  and  yet  adds,  everything 
does  not  show  in  like  manner  the  goodness  of  God,  conformabl}} 

327 


328  GRAY 

to  our  ideas  of  this  attribute  in  either!  By  wisdom  he  must 
only  mean,  that  God  knows  and  employs  the  fittest  means  to  a 
certain  end,  no  matter  what  that  end  may  be.  This  indeed  is  a 
proof  of  knowledge  and  intelligence;  but  these  alone  do  not 
constitute  wisdom;  the  word  impUes  the  application  of  these 
fittest  means  to  the  best  and  kindest  end :  or,  who  will  call  it 
true  wisdom  ?  Even  amongst  ourselves,  it  is  not  held  as  such. 
All  the  attributes  then  that  he  seems  to  think  apparent  in  the 
constitution  of  things,  are  his  unity,  infinity,  eternity,  and  in- 
telligence; from  no  one  of  which,  I  boldly  affirm,  can  result 
any  duty  of  gratitude  or  adoration  incumbent  on  mankind,  more 
than  if  He  and  all  things  round  him  were  produced,  as  some 
have  dared  to  think,  by  the  necessary  working  of  eternal  matter 
in  an  infinite  vacuum :  for  what  does  it  avail  to  add  intelligence 
to  those  other  physical  attributes,  unless  that  intelligence  be  di- 
rected, not  only  to  the  good  of  the  whole,  but  also  to  the  good 
of  every  individual  of  which  that  whole  is  composed  ? 

It  is  therefore  no  impiety,  but  the  direct  contrary,  to  say  that 
human  justice  and  the  other  virtues,  which  are  indeed  only 
various  applications  of  human  benevolence,  bear  some  resem- 
blance to  the  moral  attributes  of  the  Supreme  Being.  It  is  only 
by  means  of  that  resemblance  we  conceive  them  in  him,  or  their 
effects  in  his  works.  It  is  by  the  same  means  only  that  we 
comprehend  those  physical  attributes  which  his  Lordship  allows 
to  be  demonstrable.  How  can  we  form  any  notion  of  his  unity, 
but  from  that  unity  of  which  we  ourselves  are  conscious  ?  How 
of  his  existence,  but  from  our  own  consciousness  of  existing? 
How  of  his  power,  but  of  that  power  which  we  experience  in 
ourselves?  Yet  neither  Lord  Bolingbroke  nor  any  other  man, 
that  thought  on  these  subjects,  ever  believed  that  these  our  ideas 
were  real  and  full  representations  of  these  attributes  in  the 
Divinity.  They  say  he  knows  ;  they  do  not  mean  that  he  com- 
pares ideas  which  he  acquired  from  sensation,  and  draws  con- 
clusions from  them.  They  say  he  acts;  they  do  not  mean  by 
impulse,  nor  as  the  soul  acts  on  an  organized  body.  They  say 
he  is  omnipotent  and  eternal ;  yet  on  what  are  their  ideas 
founded,  but  on  our  own  narrow  conceptions  of  space  and  dura- 
tion, prolonged  beyond  the  bounds  of  place  and  time?  Either, 
therefore,  there  is  a  resemblance  and  analogy  (however  imper- 
fect and  distant)  between  the  attributes  of  the  Divinity  and  our 


ON   THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   LORD   BOLINGBROKE    329 

conceptions  of  them,  or  we  cannot  have  any  conceptions  of  them 
at  all  He  allows  we  ought  to  reason  from  earth,  that  we  do 
know,  to  heaven  which  we  not  know;  how  can  we  do  so  but 
by  that  affinity  which  appears  between  one  and  the  other? 

In  vain,  then,  does  my  lord  attempt  to  ridicule  the  warm 
but  melancholy  imagination  of  Mr.  Wollaston  in  that  fine  solil- 
oquy :  "  Must  I  then  bid  my  last  farewell  to  these  walks  when 
I  close  these  lids,  and  yonder  blue  regions  and  all  this  scene 
darken  upon  me  and  go  out  ?  Must  I  then  only  serve  to  furnish 
dust  to  be  mingled  with  the  ashes  of  these  herbs  and  plants,  or 
with  this  dirt  under  my  feet?  Have  I  been  set  so  far  above 
them  in  life,  only  to  be  levelled  with  them  in  death  ?  "  ^  No 
thinking  head,  no  heart,  that  has  the  least  sensibility,  but  must 
have  made  the  same  reflection;  or  at  least  must  feel,  not  the 
beauty  alone,  but  the  truth  of  it  when  he  hears  it  from  the 
mouth  of  another.  Now  what  reply  will  Lord  Bolingbroke 
make  to  these  questions  which  are  put  to  him,  not  only  by 
Wollaston,  but  by  all  mankind  ?  He  will  tell  you,  that  we,  that 
is,  the  animals,  vegetables,  stones,  and  other  clods  of  earth,  are 
all  connected  in  one  immense  design,  that  we  are  all  dramatis 
personce,  in  different  characters,  and  that  we  were  not  made 
for  ourselves,  but  for  the  action :  that  it  is  foolish,  presumptu- 
ous, impious,  and  profane  to  murmur  against  the  Almighty 
Author  of  this  drama,  when  we  feel  ourselves  unavoidably  un- 
happy. On  the  contrary,  we  ought  to  rest  our  head  on  the  soft 
pillow  of  resignation,  on  the  immovable  rock  of  tranquillity; 
secure,  that,  if  our  pains  and  afflictions  grow  violent  indeed, 
an  immediate  end  will  be  put  to  our  miserable  being,  and  we 
shall  be  mingled  with  the  dirt  under  our  feet,  a  thing  common 
to  all  the  animal  kind;  and  of  which  he  who  complains  does 
not  seem  to  have  been  set  by  his  reason  so  far  above  them  in 
life,  as  to  deserve  not  to  be  mingled  with  them  in  death.  Such 
is  the  consolation  his  philosophy  gives  us,  and  such  the  hope 
on  which  his  tranquillity  was  founded. 

•  "  Religion  of  Nature  Delineated,"  sec.  9,  p.  209,  quarto. 


15— Vol.  57 


CHANGE    OF    STYLE 


BY 


HORACE    WALPOLi 

'Earl  of  Orford 


HORACE   WALPOLE,   EARL   OF   ORFORD 
1717— 1797 

Horace  Walpole,  the  son  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  the  powerful  min- 
ister of  George  I,  was  born  in  London  in  1717,  and  educated  at  Eton, 
where  his  acquaintance  with  the  poet  Gray  commenced.  In  1734  he 
went  to  King's  College,  Cambridge,  and  careless  of  any  literary  dis- 
tinction beyond  the  indulgence  of  his  own  tastes,  left  it  without  taking 
a  degree.  In  1739,  after  he  had  obtained  by  his  father's  patronage 
several  lucrative  appointments,  which  he  retained  through  life,  he  went 
abroad,  and  travelled,  for  the  most  part  in  company  with  Gray,  through 
France  and  Italy,  On  his  return  to  England,  in  1741,  he  entered  Parlia- 
ment, and  sat  as  member  for  Callington,  Castle  Rising,  and  lastly  for 
Lynn;  but  though  he  remained  in  Parliament  till  1768,  he  appears, 
after  the  personal  interests  attaching  to  his  father's  administration  had 
passed  away,  to  have  been  rather  a  spectator  than  an  actor  in  politics, 
and  seldom  took  any  part  in  debate.  For  many  years  he  devoted  much 
of  his  time  to  the  building  and  embellishment  of  his  Gothic  villa  at 
Strawberry  Hill,  where  he  accumulated  a  large  collection  of  pictures, 
curiosities,  and  objets  de  vertu.  Here  also  he  established  a  private 
printing-press,  from  which  most  of  his  own  writings  and  many  literary 
and  artistic  works  by  other  authors  issued.  In  1791  he  succeeded  his 
nephew  as  Earl  of  Orford,  but  never  took  his  seat  in  the  House  of 
Lords.     He  died  in  1797,  in  his  eightieth  year. 

Horace  Walpole  was  the  author  of  "  The  Castle  of  Otranto,"  a  very 
successful  and  popular  romance;  of  a  tragedy — "The  Mysterious 
Mother,"  and  of  various  pamphlets  and  essays  which  appeared  in  the 
periodicals  of  the  day,  as  well  as  of  several  important  catalogues  of 
artists  and  artistic  works ;  but  it  is  by  his  "  Letters  "  that  he  is  best 
known  to  a  later  generation.  In  his  "  Letters  "  and  "  Essays  "  he  ap- 
pears as  a  man  of  the  world,  witty,  ingenious,  entertaining,  and  always 
graceful.  His  essay  entitled  "  The  Change  of  Style  "  was  originally 
contributed  to  "  The  World."  o  j  s        j 


3.12 


CHANGE  OF  STYLE 

THE  great  men  who  introduced  the  reformation  *  into 
these  kingdoms  were  so  sensible  of  the  necessity  of 
maintaining  devotion  in  the  minds  of  the  vulgar  by 
some  external  objects,  by  somewhat  of  ceremony  and  form, 
that  they  refrained  from  entirely  ripping  off  all  ornament 
from  the  drapery  of  religion.  When  they  were  purging  the 
calendar  of  legions  of  visionary  saints,  they  took  due  care  to 
defend  the  niches  of  real  martyrs  from  profanation.  They 
preserved  the  holy  festivals,  which  had  been  consecrated  for 
many  ages  to  the  great  luminaries  of  the  Church,  and  at  once 
laid  proper  observance  to  the  memory  of  the  good,  and  fell 
in  with  the  popular  humor,  which  loves  to  rejoice  and  mourn 
at  the  discretion  of  the  almanac. 

In  so  enlightened  an  age  as  the  present,  I  shall  perhaps  be 
ridiculed  if  I  hint,  as  my  opinion,  that  the  observation  of  certain 
festivals  is  something  more  than  a  mere  political  institution.  I 
cannot,  however,  help  thinking  that  even  nature  itself  concurs  to 
confirm  my  sentiment.  Philosophers  and  freethinkers  tell  us 
that  a  general  system  was  laid  down  at  first,  and  that  no  devia- 
tions have  been  made  to  accommodate  it  to  any  subsequent 
events,  or  to  favor  and  authorize  any  human  institutions.  When 
the  reformation  of  the  calendar  was  in  agitation,  to  the  great 
disgust  of  many  worthy  persons,  who  urged  how  great  the 
harmony  was  in  the  old  establishment  between  the  holidays  and 
their  attributes  (if  I  may  call  them  so),  and  what  a  confusion 
would  follow,  if  Michaelmas  Day,  for  instance,  was  not  to  be 
celebrated  when  stubble-geese  are  in  their  highest  perfection; 
it  was  replied  that  such  a  propriety  was  merely  imaginary,  and 
would  be  lost  of  itself,  even  without  any  alteration  of  the  calen- 
dar by  authority :  for  if  the  errors  in  it  were  suffered  to  go  on, 
they  would  in  a  certain  number  of  years  produce  such  a  varia- 

^  The  change  of  style  was  introduced       that   the   fourth    of    September  of  that 
by  act  of  Parliament  in  1752,  ordaining      year  should  be  reckoned  the  fourteenth. 

333 


334  WALPOLE 

tion,  that  we  should  be  mourning  for  good  King  Charles  on  a 
false  thirtieth  of  January,  at  a  time  of  year  when  our  ancestors 
used  to  be  tumbling  over  head  and  heels  in  Greenwich  Park  in 
honor  of  Whitsuntide;  and  at  length,  be  choosing  king  and 
queen  for  the  Twelfth-night,  when  we  ought  to  be  admiring 
the  London  Prentice  at  Bartholomew  Fair.^ 

Cogent  as  these  reasons  may  seem,  yet  I  think  I  can  confute 
them  from  the  testimony  of  a  standing  miracle,  which,  not  hav- 
ing submitted  to  the  fallible  authority  of  an  act  of  parliament, 
may  well  be  said  to  put  a  supernatural  negative  on  the  wisdom 
of  this  world.  My  readers,  no  doubt,  are  already  aware  that  I 
have  in  my  eye  the  wonderful  thorn  of  Glastonbury,^  which, 
though  hitherto  regarded  as  a  trunk  of  popish  imposture,  has 
notably  exerted  itself  as  the  most  protestant  plant  in  the  uni- 
verse. It  is  well  known  that  the  correction  of  the  calendar  was 
enacted  by  Pope  Gregory  XIII,  and  that  the  reformed  churches 
have  with  a  proper  spirit  of  opposition  adhered  to  the  old  cal- 
culation of  the  Emperor  Julius  Caesar,  who  was  by  no  means  a 
papist.  Nearly  two  years  ago  the  popish  calendar  was  brought 
in  (I  hope  by  persons  well  affected).  Certain  it  is,  that  the 
Glastonbury  thorn  has  preserved  its  inflexibility,  and  observes 
its  old  anniversary.  Many  thousand  spectators  visited  it  on 
the  parliamentary  Christmas  Day.  Not  a  bud  was  there  to  be 
seen !  On  the  true  nativity  it  was  covered  with  blossoms.  One 
must  be  an  infidel  indeed  to  spurn  at  such  authority.  Had  I 
been  consulted  (and  mathematical  studies  have  not  been  the 
most  inconsiderable  of  my  speculations),  instead  of  turning  the 
calendar  topsy-turvy,  by  fantastic  calculations,  I  should  have 
proposed  to  regulate  the  year  by  the  infallible  Somersetshire 
thorn,  and  to  have  reckoned  the  months  from  Christmas  Day, 
which  should  always  have  been  kept  as  the  Glastonbury  thorn 
should  blow. 

Many  inconveniences,  to  be  sure,  would  follow  from  this  sys- 
tem ;  but  as  holy  things  ought  to  be  the  first  consideration  of  a 

*  The  fair  began  every  year  at  Smith-  by  a  paragraph  in  the  "  Gentleman's 
field  on  August  Z4th.  Originally  a  cloth  Magazine,"  1753:  "  A  vast  concourse  of 
market,  it  lasted  in  one  form  or  other  people  attended  the  noted  thorn  on 
from  the  reign  of  Henry  II  to  18^5-  Christmas  Day,  new  stvle,  but  to  their 

•  A  famous  hawthorn  near  Glaston-  great  disappointment  there  was  no  an- 
bury Abbey  in  Somersetshire,  which  pearance  of  its  blowing,  which  made 
was  reputed  to  blossom  on  Christmas  them  watch  it  narrowly  the  fifth  of  Janu- 
Day.  Legend  said  it  was  the  walking-  ary,  Christmas  Day,  old  style,  when  it 
stick  of  Joseph  of  Arimathea.    This  es-  blowed  as   usual." 

say  was  doubtless  suggested  to  Walpole 


CHANGE   OF   STYLE  3:^5 

religious  nation,  the  inconveniences  should  be  overlooked.  The 
thorn  can  never  blow  but  on  the  true  Christmas  Day ;  and  con- 
sequently the  apprehension  of  the  year's  becoming  inverted  by 
sticking  to  the  Julian  account  can  never  hold.  If  the  course  of 
the  sun  varies,  astronomers  may  find  out  some  way  to  adjust 
that;  but  it  is  preposterous,  not  to  say  presumptuous,  to  be 
celebrating  Christmas  Day  when  the  Glastonbury  thorn,  which 
certainly  must  know  times  and  seasons  better  than  an  almanac- 
maker,  declares  it  to  be  heresy. 

Nor  is  Christmas  Day  the  only  jubilee  which  will  he  morally 
disturbed  by  this  innovation.  There  is  another  anniversary  of 
no  less  celebrity  among  Englishmen,  equally  marked  by  a  mar- 
vellous concomitance  of  circumstances,  and  which  I  venture  to 
prognosticate  will  not  attend  the  erroneous  calculation  of  the 
present  system.  The  day  I  mean  is  the  first  of  April.  The  old- 
est tradition  affirms  that  such  an  infatuation  attends  the  first 
day  of  that  month,  as  no  foresight  can  escape,  no  vigilance  can 
defeat.  Deceit  is  successful  on  that  day  out  of  the  mouths  of 
babes  and  sucklings.  Grave  citizens  have  been  bit  upon  it; 
usurers  have  lent  their  money  on  bad  security;  experienced 
matrons  have  married  very  disappointing  young  fellows ;  mathe- 
maticians have  missed  the  longitude;  alchemists,  the  philoso- 
pher's stone ;  and  politicians,  preferment,  on  that  day. 

What  confusion  will  not  follow,  if  the  great  body  of  the 
nation  are  disappointed  of  their  peculiar  holiday !  This  country 
was  formerly  disturbed  with  very  fatal  quarrels  about  the  cele- 
bration of  Easter ;  and  no  wise  man  will  tell  me  that  it  is  not  as 
reasonable  to  fall  out  for  the  observance  of  April-fool  Day. 
Can  any  benefits  arising  from  a  regulated  calendar  make  amends 
for  an  occasion  of  new  sects  ?  How  many  warm  men  may  re- 
sent an  attempt  to  play  them  off  on  a  false  first  of  April,  who 
would  have  submitted  to  the  custom  of  being  made  fools  on  the 
old  computation?  If  our  clergy  come  to  be  divided  about 
Folly's  anniversary,  we  may  well  expect  all  the  mischiefs  at- 
tendant on  religious  wars;  and  we  shall  have  reason  to  wish 
that  the  Glastonbury  thorn  would  declare  as  remarkably  in  favor 
of  the  true  April-fool  Day  as  it  has  in  behalf  of  the  genuine 
Christmas. 

There  are  many  other  inconveniences,  which  I  might  lament 
very  emphatically,  but  none  of  weight  enough  to  be  compared 


336  WALPOLE 

with  those  I  have  mentioned.  I  shall  only  hint  at  a  whole  sys- 
tem overturned  by  this  revolution  in  the  calendar,  and  no  pro- 
vision, that  I  have  heard  of,  made  by  the  legislature  to  remedy 
it.  Yet  in  a  nation  which  bestows  such  ample  rewards  on  new- 
year  and  birthday  odes,  it  is  astonishing  that  the  late  act  of 
Parliament  should  have  overlooked  that  useful  branch  of  our 
poetry,  which  consists  of  couplets,  saws,  and  proverbs  peculiar 
to  certain  days  and  seasons.  Why  was  not  a  new  set  of  distichs 
provided  by  the  late  reformers  ?  Or  at  least  a  clause  inserted 
in  the  act  enjoining  the  poet-laureate,  or  some  beneficial  genius, 
to  prepare  and  new-cast  the  established  rhymes  for  public  use  ? 
Were  our  astronomers  so  ignorant  as  to  think  that  the  old 
proverbs  would  serve  for  their  new-fangled  calendar?  Could 
they  imagine  that  St.  Swithin  would  accommodate  his  rainy 
planet  to  the  convenience  of  the  calculations  ?  Who  that  hears 
the  following  verses  but  must  grieve  for  the  shepherd  and  hus- 
bandman, who  may  have  all  their  prognostics  confounded,  and 
be  at  a  loss  to  know  beforehand  the  fate  of  their  markets  ?  An- 
cient sages  sung, 

"  If  St.  Paul  be  fair  and  clear. 
Then  will  betide  a  happy  year ; 
But  if  it  either  snow  or  rain, 
Then  will  be  dear  all  kind  of  grain: 
And  if  the  wind  doth  blow  aloft, 
Then  wars  will  vex  the  realm  full  oft."* 

I  have  declared  against  meddling  with  politics,  and  therefore 
shall  say  nothing  of  the  important  hints  contained  in  the  last 
lines :  yet  if  certain  ill-boding  appearances  abroad  should  have 
an  ugly  end,  I  cannot  help  saying  that  I  shall  ascribe  their  evil 
tendency  to  our  having  been  lulled  asleep  by  resting  our  faith  on 
the  calm  weather  on  the  pretended  conversion  of  St.  Paul; 
whereas  it  was  very  blustering  on  that  festival,  according  to  the 
good  old  account,  as  I  honestly,  though  vainly,  endeavored  to 
convince  a  great  minister  of  state,  whom  I  do  not  think  proper 
to  mention. 

But  to  return  to  April-fool  Day ;  I  must  beg  my  readers  and 
admirers  to  be  very  particular  in  their  observations  on  that  holi- 

*  It  was  long  believed  that  the  condi-  of  many  translations  of  four  medixval 

tion  of  weather  on  St.  Paul's  Day,  Janu-  lines  beginning,  "  Clara  dies  Pauli  bona 

ary  asth,  determined  the  character  of  the  tempora  denotat  aniii," 
Tfhole  year.    The  verses  quoted  are  one 


CHANGE   OF   STYLE  337 

day,  both  according  to  the  new  and  old  reckoning.  And  I  beg 
that  they  will  transmit  to  me  or  my  secretary,  Mr.  Dodsley,  a 
faithful  and  attested  account  of  the  hap  that  betides  them  or 
their  acquaintance  on  each  of  those  days;  how  often  and  in 
what  manner  they  make  or  are  made  fools ;  how  they  miscarry 
in  attempts  to  surprise,  or  baffle  any  snares  laid  for  them.  I  do 
not  doubt  but  it  will  be  found  that  the  balance  of  folly  lies 
greatly  on  the  side  of  the  old  first  of  April ;  nay,  I  much  ques- 
tion whether  infatuation  will  have  any  force  on  what  I  call 
false  April-fool  Day.  I  should  take  it  very  kind  if  any  of  my 
friends,  who  may  happen  to  be  sharpers,  would  try  their  success 
on  the  fictitious  festival;  and  if  they  make  fewer  dupes  than 
ordinary,  I  flatter  myself  that  they  will  unite  their  endeavors 
with  mine  in  decrying  and  exploding  a  reformation  which  only 
tends  to  discountenance  good  old  practices  and  venerable  super- 
stitions. 


NATIONAL    PREJUDICE 


THE    MAN    IN    BLACK 


A    CLUB    OF    AUTHORS 


BEAU    TIBBS 


A    CITY    NIGHT-PIECE 


BY 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

1728— 1774 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  born  1728,  at  Pallasmore,  in  County  Longford, 
was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  1745-49.  After  some 
studies  at  Leyden  he  took  a  medical  degree  at  Louvain,  and  travelled 
on  foot  through  a  part  of  the  Continent,  1754-55.  Having  tried 
without  success  to  earn  his  livelihood  as  a  schoolmaster,  he  became  a 
hack-writer  for  booksellers  in  1757.  He  attracted  the  attention  of 
critics  by  the  essays  entitled  "  The  Citizen  of  the  World,"  in  1760; 
and  in  1764  produced  his  two  most  successful  works,  "  The  Traveller," 
a  poem,  and  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  a  novel.  From  that  time, 
partly  as  an  essayist,  partly  as  a  writer  for  the  stage.  Goldsmith  kept 
himself  constantly  before  the  public.  He  produced  another  classical 
poem,  the  "  Deserted  Village,"  in  1770,  and  compiled  school  histories 
of  Rome,  England,  and  Greece,  and  a  "  History  of  Animated  Nature," 
for  the  London  booksellers,  1767-73.  But,  careless  of  making  or 
saving  money.  Goldsmith  was  always  in  diihculties,  and  his  early  death, 
in  1774,  was  probably  hastened  by  mental  disquietude. 

The  peculiar  merits  of  Goldsmith's  writings  are  clearness  of  thought, 
ease  of  style,  and  simple  language.  He  never  writes  for  effect,  and 
there  is  scarcely  a  sentence  in  his  works  that  a  child  might  not  under- 
stand. Yet  in  powers  of  judgment  and  thought,  as  well  as  in  warm 
and  deep  sympathies,  he  was  far  above  the  great  mass  of  his  con- 
temporaries. He  was  the  first  to  predict  the  French  Revolution  and  the 
Swedish  coup  d'etat.  He  is  perhaps  the  only  writer  of  his  times  who 
thoroughly  understood  the  social  condition  of  the  Continent.  Nor  was 
he  less  observant  of  English  society,  and  the  "  Deserted  Village  "  has 
been  often  quoted  by  economists  in  illustration  of  the  change  which 
has  gradually  substituted  large  estates  for  the  small  holdings  of  a 
numerous  yeomanry.  All  the  essays  given  here  are  taken  from  "  The 
Citizen  of  the  World." 


340 


NATIONAL   PREJUDICE 

THE  English  seem  as  silent  as  the  Japanese,  yet  vainer 
than  the  inhabitants  of  Siam.  Upon  my  arrival  I  attrib- 
uted that  reserve  to  modesty,  which  I  now  find  has  its 
origin  in  pride.  Condescend  to  address  them  first  and  you  are 
sure  of  their  acquaintance ;  stoop  to  flattery  and  you  conciliate 
their  friendship  and  esteem.  They  bear  hunger,  cold,  fatigue, 
and  all  the  miseries  of  life  without  shrinking ;  danger  only  calls 
forth  their  fortitude;  they  even  exult  in  calamity:  but  con- 
tempt is  what  they  cannot  bear.  An  Englishman  fears  con- 
tempt more  than  death ;  he  often  flies  to  death  as  a  refuge  from 
its  pressure,  and  dies  when  he  fancies  the  world  has  ceased  to 
esteem  him. 

Pride  seems  the  source  not  only  of  their  national  vices,  but 
of  their  national  virtues  also.  An  Englishman  is  taught  to  love 
the  king  as  his  friend,  but  to  acknowledge  no  other  master  than 
the  laws  which  himself  has  contributed  to  enact.  He  despises 
those  nations  who,  that  one  may  be  free,  are  all  content  to  be 
slaves ;  who  first  lift  a  tyrant  into  terror,  and  then  shrink  under 
his  power  as  if  delegated  from  heaven.  Liberty  is  echoed  in  all 
their  assemblies ;  and  thousands  might  be  found  ready  to  oflfer 
up  their  lives  for  the  sound,  though  perhaps  not  one  of  all  the 
number  understands  its  meaning.  The  lowest  mechanic,  how- 
ever, looks  upon  it  as  his  duty  to  be  a  watchful  guardian  of  his 
country's  freedom,  and  often  uses  a  language  that  might  seem 
haughty  even  in  the  mouth  of  the  great  emperor  who  traces 
his  ancestry  to  the  moon. 

A  few  days  ago,  passing  by  one  of  their  prisons,  I  could  not 
avoid  stopping,  in  order  to  listen  to  a  dialogue  which  I  thought 
might  afford  me  some  entertainment.  The  conversation  was 
carried  on  between  a  debtor  through  the  grate  of  his  prison,  a 
porter,  who  had  stopped  to  rest  his  burden,  and  a  soldier  at 
the  window.    The  subject  was  upon  a  threatened  invasion  from 

341 


342  GOLDSMITH 

France,  and  each  seemed  extremely  anxious  to  rescue  his  coun- 
try from  the  impending  danger.  "  For  my  part,"  cries  the  pris- 
oner, "  the  greatest  of  my  apprehension  is  for  our  freedom ;  if 
the  French  should  conquer,  what  would  become  of  English 
liberty  ?  My  dear  friends,  liberty  is  the  Englishman's  preroga- 
tive ;  we  must  preserve  that  at  the  expense  of  our  lives  ;  of  that 
the  French  shall  never  deprive  us.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  that 
men  who  are  slaves  themselves  would  preserve  our  freedom 
should  they  happen  to  conquer."  "  Ay,  slaves,"  cries  the  por- 
ter, "  they  are  all  slaves,  fit  only  to  carry  burdens,  every  one  of 
them.  Before  I  would  stoop  to  slavery  let  this  be  my  poison  " 
(and  he  held  the  goblet  in  his  hand),  "  may  this  be  my  poison; 
but  I  would  sooner  list  for  a  soldier." 

The  soldier,  taking  the  goblet  from  his  friend  with  much  awe, 
fervently  cried  out,  "  It  is  not  so  much  our  liberties  as  our  re- 
ligion that  would  suflfer  by  such  a  change :  ay,  our  religion,  my 
lads.  May  the  devil  sink  me  into  flames  "  (such  was  the  solem- 
nity of  his  adjuration)  "  if  the  French  should  come  over,  but  our 
religion  would  be  utterly  undone."  So  saying,  instead  of  a  liba- 
tion, he  applied  the  goblet  to  his  lips,  and  confirmed  his  senti- 
ments with  a  ceremony  of  the  most  persevering  devotion. 

In  short,  every  man  here  pretends  to  be  a  politician ;  even  the 
fair  sex  are  sometimes  found  to  mix  the  severity  of  national 
altercation  with  the  blandishments  of  love,  and  often  become 
conquerors  by  more  weapons  of  destruction  than  their  eyes. 

This  universal  passion  for  politics  is  gratified  by  daily  ga- 
zettes, as  with  us  in  China.  But  as  in  ours  the  emperor  en- 
deavors to  instruct  his  people,  in  theirs  the  people  endeavor  to 
instruct  the  administration.  You  must  not,  however,  imagine 
that  they  who  compile  these  papers  have  any  actual  knowledge 
of  the  politics  or  the  government  of  a  state ;  they  only  collect 
their  materials  from  the  oracle  of  some  coflfee-house,  which 
oracle  has  himself  gathered  them  the  night  before  from  a  beau 
at  a  gaming-table,  who  has  pillaged  his  knowledge  from  a  great 
man's  porter,  who  has  had  his  information  from  the  great  man's 
gentleman,  who  has  invented  the  whole  story  for  his  own 
amusement  the  night  preceding. 

The  English,  in  general,  seem  fonder  of  gaining  the  esteem 
than  the  love  of  those  they  converse  with.  This  gives  a  formal- 
ity to  their  amusements :  their  gayest  conversations  have  some- 


NATIONAL  PREJUDICE  343 

thing  too  wise  for  innocent  relaxation :  though  in  company  you 
are  seldom  disgusted  with  the  absurdity  of  a  fool,  you  are  sel- 
dom lifted  into  rapture  by  those  strokes  of  vivacity  which  give 
instant  though  not  permanent  pleasure. 

What  they  want,  however,  in  gayety,  they  make  up  in  polite- 
ness. You  smile  at  hearing  me  praise  the  English  for  their  po- 
liteness— you  who  have  heard  very  different  accounts  from  the 
missionaries  at  Pekin,  who  have  seen  such  a  different  behavior 
in  their  merchants  and  seamen  at  home.  But  I  must  still  repeat 
it,  the  English  seem  more  polite  than  any  of  their  neighbors: 
their  great  art  in  this  respect  lies  in  endeavoring,  while  they 
oblige,  to  lessen  the  force  of  the  favor.  Other  countries  are 
fond  of  obliging  a  stranger,  but  seem  desirous  that  he  should 
be  sensible  of  the  obligation.  The  English  confer  their  kind- 
ness with  an  appearance  of  indifference,  and  give  away  benefits 
with  an  air  as  if  they  despised  them. 

Walking,  a  few  days  ago,  between  an  English  and  a  French 
man,  into  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  we  were  overtaken  by  a  heavy 
shower  of  rain.  I  was  unprepared;  but  they  had  each  large 
coats,  which  defended  them  from  what  seemed  to  me  a  perfect 
inundation.  The  Englishman,  seeing  me  shrink  from  the 
weather,  accosted  me  thus:  "  Psha,  man,  what  dost  shrink  at? 
Here,  take  this  coat ;  I  don't  want  it ;  I  find  it  no  way  useful  to 
me ;  I  had  as  lief  be  without  it."  The  Frenchman  began  to 
show  his  politeness  in  turn.  "  My  dear  friend,"  cries  he,  "  why 
don't  you  oblige  me  by  making  use  of  my  coat?  you  see  how 
well  it  defends  me  from  the  rain ;  I  should  not  choose  to  part 
with  it  to  others,  but  to  such  a  friend  as  you  I  could  even  part 
with  my  skin  to  do  him  service." 

From  such  minute  instances  as  these,  most  reverend  Fum 
Hoam,  I  am  sensible  your  sagacity  will  collect  instruction.  The 
volume  of  nature  is  the  book  of  knowledge ;  and  he  becomes 
most  wise  who  makes  the  most  judicious  selection. — Farewell. 


THE   MAN   IN  BLACK 

THOUGH  fond  of  my  acquaintances,  I  desire  an  intimacy 
only  with  a  few.  Tlie  Man  in  Black,  whom  I  have  of- 
ten mentioned,  is  one  whose  friendship  I  could  wish  to 
acquire,  because  he  possesses  my  esteem.  His  manners,  it  is 
true,  are  tinctured  with  some  strange  inconsistencies ;  and  he 
may  be  justly  termed  a  humorist  in  a  nation  of  humorists. 
Though  he  is  generous  even  to  profusion,  he  affects  to  be 
thought  a  prodigy  of  parsimony  and  prudence :  though  his  con- 
versation be  replete  with  the  most  sordid  and  selfish  maxims, 
his  heart  is  dilated  with  the  most  unbounded  love.  I  have 
known  him  profess  himself  a  man-hater,  while  his  cheek  was 
glowing  with  compassion ;  and  while  his  looks  were  softened 
into  pity,  I  have  heard  him  use  the  language  of  the  most  un- 
bounded ill-nature.  Some  afifect  humanity  and  tenderness, 
others  boast  of  having  such  dispositions  from  nature ;  but  he  is 
the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who  seemed  ashamed  of  his  natural 
benevolence.  He  takes  as  much  pains  to  hide  his  feelings  as 
any  hypocrite  would  to  conceal  his  indifference ;  but  on  every 
unguarded  moment  the  mask  drops  off,  and  reveals  him  to  the 
most  superficial  observer. 

In  one  of  our  late  excursions  into  the  country,  happening  to 
discourse  upon  the  provision  that  was  made  for  the  poor  in 
England,  he  seemed  amazed  how  any  of  his  countrymen  could 
be  so  foolishly  weak  as  to  relieve  occasional  objects  of  charity, 
when  the  laws  had  made  such  ample  provision  for  their  support. 
"  In  every  parish-house,"  says  he,  "  the  poor  are  supplied  with 
food,  clothes,  fire,  and  a  bed  to  lie  on ;  they  want  no  more,  I 
desire  no  m-ore  myself ;  yet  still  they  seem  discontented.  I  am 
surprised  at  the  inactivity  of  our  magistrates  in  not  taking  up 
such  vagrants,  who  are  only  a  weight  upon  the  industrious ;  I 
am  surprised  that  the  people  are  found  to  relieve  them,  when 
they  must  be  at  the  same  time  sensible  that  it  in  some  measure 
encourages  idleness,  extravagance,  and  imposture.  Were  I  to 
advise  any  man  for  whom  I  had  the  least  regard,  I  would  cau- 

345 


346  GOLDSMITH 

tion  him  by  all  means  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  their  false 
pretences :  let  me  assure  you,  sir,  they  are  impostors,  every  one 
of  them,  and  rather  merit  a  prison  than  relief." 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  strain  earnestly  to  dissuade  me 
from  an  imprudence  of  which  I  am  seldom  guilty,  when  an  old 
man,  who  still  had  about  him  the  remnants  of  tattered  finery, 
implored  our  compassion.  He  assured  us  he  was  no  common 
beggar,  but  forced  into  the  shameful  profession  to  support  a 
dying  wife  and  five  hungry  children.  Being  prepossessed 
against  such  falsehoods,  his  story  had  not  the  least  influence 
upon  me  ;  but  it  was  quite  otherwise  with  the  Man  in  Black  :  I 
could  see  it  visibly  operate  upon  his  countenance,  and  effectu- 
ally interrupt  his  harangue.  I  could  easily  perceive  that  his 
heart  burned  to  relieve  the  five  starving  children,  but  he  seemed 
ashamed  to  discover  his  weakness  to  me.  While  he  thus  hesi- 
tated between  compassion  and  pride,  I  pretended  to  look  an- 
other way,  and  he  seized  this  opportunity  of  giving  the  poor 
petitioner  a  piece  of  silver,  bidding  him  at  the  same  time,  in 
order  that  I  should  hear,  go  work  for  his  bread,  and  not  tease 
passengers  with  such  impertinent  falsehoods  for  the  future. 

As  he  had  fancied  himself  quite  unperceived,  he  continued,  as 
we  proceeded,  to  rail  against  beggars  with  as  much  animosity 
as  before :  he  threw  in  some  episodes  on  his  own  amazing  pru- 
dence and  economy,  with  his  profound  skill  in  discovering  im- 
postors ;  he  explained  the  manner  in  which  he  would  deal  with 
beggars  were  he  a  magistrate,  hinted  at  enlarging  some  of  the 
prisons  for  their  reception,  and  told  two  stories  of  ladies  that 
were  robbed  by  beggar-men.  He  was  beginning  a  third  to  the 
same  purpose,  when  a  sailor  with  a  wooden  leg  once  more 
crossed  our  walks,  desiring  our  pity,  and  blessing  our  limbs.  I 
was  for  going  on  without  taking  any  notice,  but  my  friend,  look- 
ing wistfully  upon  the  poor  petitioner,  bid  me  stop,  and  he 
would  show  with  how  much  ease  he  could  at  any  time  detect  an 
impostor. 

He  now,  therefore,  assumed  a  look  of  importance,  and  in  an 
angry  tone  began  to  examine  the  sailor,  demanding  in  what  en- 
gagement he  was  thus  disabled  and  rendered  unfit  for  service. 
The  sailor  replied,  in  a  tone  as  angrily  as  he,  that  he  had  been  an 
officer  on  board  a  private  ship  of  war,  and  that  he  had  lost  his 
leg  abroad  in  defence  of  those  who  did  nothing  at  home.  At 
this  reply,  all  my  friend's  importance  vanished  in  a  moment; 


THE   MAN   IN  BLACK  347 

he  had  not  a  single  question  more  to  ask  ;  he  now  only  studied 
what  method  he  should  adopt  to  relieve  him  unobserved.  He 
had,  however,  no  easy  part  to  act,  as  he  was  obliged  to  preserve 
the  appearance  of  ill-nature  before  me,  and  yet  relieve  himself 
by  relieving  the  sailor.  Casting,  therefore,  a  furious  look  upon 
some  bundles  of  chips  which  the  fellow  carried  in  a  string  at  his 
back,  my  friend  demanded  how  he  sold  his  matches ;  but,  not 
waiting  for  a  reply,  desired,  in  a  surly  tone,  to  have  a  shilling's 
worth.  The  sailor  seemed  at  first  surprised  at  his  demand,  but 
soon  recollecting  himself,  and  presenting  his  whole  bundle, 
"  Here,  master,"  says  he,  "  take  all  my  cargo,  and  a  blessing 
into  the  bargain." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  with  what  an  air  of  triumph  my 
friend  marched  off  with  his  new  purchase :  he  assured  me  that 
he  was  firmly  of  opinion  that  those  fellows  must  have  stolen 
their  goods,  who  could  thus  afford  to  sell  them  for  half  value. 
He  informed  me  of  several  different  uses  to  which  those  chips 
might  be  applied ;  he  expatiated  largely  upon  the  savings  that 
would  result  from  lighting  candles  with  a  match,  instead  of 
thrusting  them  into  the  fire.  He  averred  that  he  would  as  soon 
have  parted  with  a  tooth  as  his  money  to  those  vagabonds  unless 
for  some  valuable  consideration.  I  cannot  tell  how  long  this 
panegyric  upon  frugality  and  matches  might  have  continued, 
had  not  his  attention  been  called  off  by  another  object  more  dis- 
tressing than  either  of  the  former.  A  woman  in  rags,  with  one 
child  in  her  arms,  and  another  on  her  back,  was  attempting  to 
sing  ballads,  but  with  such  a  mournful  voice  that  it  was  difficult 
to  determine  whether  she  was  singing  or  crying.  A  wretch, 
who  in  the  deepest  distress  still  aimed  at  good-humor,  was  an 
object  my  friend  was  by  no  means  capable  of  withstanding:  his 
vivacity  and  his  discourse  were  instantly  interrupted;  upon 
this  occasion,  his  very  dissimulation  had  forsaken  him.  Even 
in  my  presence  he  immediately  appHed  his  hands  to  his  pock- 
ets, in  order  to  relieve  her:  but  guess  his  confusion  when  he 
found  he  had  already  given  away  all  the  money  he  carried  about 
him  to  former  objects.  The  misery  painted  in  the  woman's 
visage  was  not  half  so  strongly  expressed  as  the  agony  in  his. 
He  continued  to  search  for  some  time,  but  to  no  purpose,  till, 
it  length  recollecting  himself,  with  a  face  of  ineffable  good- 
nature, as  he  had  no  money,  he  put  into  her  hands  his  shilling's 
worth  of  matches.  ~ 


A  CLUB   OF   AUTHORS 

BY  my  last  advices  from  Moscow  I  find  the  caravan  has 
not  yet  departed  from  China.  I  still  continue  to  write, 
expecting  that  you  may  receive  a  large  number  of  let- 
ters at  once.  In  them  you  will  find  rather  a  minute  detail  of 
English  peculiarities  than  a  general  picture  of  their  manners  or 
dispositions.  Happy  it  were  for  mankind,  if  all  travellers  would 
thus,  instead  of  characterizing  a  people  in  general  terms,  lead 
us  into  a  detail  of  those  minute  circumstances  which  first  in- 
fluenced their  opinion.  The  genius  of  a  country  should  be  in- 
vestigated with  a  kind  of  experimental  inquiry ;  by  this  means 
we  should  have  more  precise  and  just^notions  of  foreign  nations, 
and  detect  travellers  themselves  when  they  happened  to  form 
wrong  conclusions. 

My  friend  and  I  repeated  our  visit  to  the  club  of  authors, 
where,  upon  our  entrance,  we  found  the  members  all  assembled 
and  engaged  in  a  loud  debate. 

The  poet  in  shabby  finery,  holding  a  manuscript  in  his  nand, 
was  earnestly  endeavoring  to  persuade  the  company  to  hear 
him  read  the  first  book  of  a  heroic  poem  which  he  had  com- 
posed the  day  before.  But  against  this  all  the  members  very 
warmly  objected.  They  knew  no  reason  why  any  member  of 
the  club  should  be  indulged  with  a  particular  hearing,  when 
many  of  them  had  published  whole  volumes  which  had  never 
been  looked  in.  They  insisted  that  the  law  should  be  observed, 
where  reading  in  company  was  expressly  noticed.  It  was  in 
vain  that  the  poet  pleaded  the  peculiar  merit  of  his  piece ;  he 
spoke  to  an  assembly  insensible  to  all  his  remonstrances :  the 
book  of  laws  was  opened  and  read  by  the  secretary,  where  it  was 
expressly  enacted, "  That  whatsoever  poet,  speech-maker,  critic, 
or  historian,  should  presume  to  engage  the  company  by  read- 
ing his  own  works,  he  was  to  lay  down  sixpence  previous  to 
opening  the  manuscript,  and  should  be  charged  one  shilling  an 
hour  while  he  continued  reading,  the  said  shilling  to  be  equally 

349 


35°  GOLDSMITH 

distributed  among  the  company  as  a  recompense  for  their  trou- 
ble." 

Our  poet  seemed  at  first  to  shrink  at  the  penalty,  hesitating 
for  some  time  whether  he  should  deposit  the  fine  or  shut  up  the 
poem ;  but,  looking  round,  and  perceiving  two  strangers  in  the 
room,  his  love  of  fame  outweighed  his  prudence,  and  laying 
down  the  sum  by  law  established,  he  insisted  on  his  prerogative. 

A  profound  silence  ensuing,  he  began  by  explaining  his 
design.  "  Gentlemen,"  says  he,  "  the  present  piece  is  not  one 
of  your  common  epic  poems  which  come  from  the  press  like 
paper  kites  in  summer;  there  are  none  of  your  Turnuses  or 
Didos  in  it ;  it  is  an  heroical  description  of  nature.  I  only  beg 
you'll  endeavor  to  make  your  souls  unison  with  mine,  and  hear 
with  the  same  enthusiasm  with  which  I  have  written.  The  poem 
begins  with  the  description  of  an  author's  bedchamber;  the 
picture  was  sketched  in  my  own  apartment ;  for  you  must  know, 
gentlemen,  that  I  am  myself  the  hero."  Then,  putting  himself 
into  the  attitude  of  an  orator,  with  all  the  emphasis  of  voice  and 
action,  he  proceeded : — 

"  Where  the  Red  Lion,  flaring  o'er  the  way, 
Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay ; 
Where  Calvert's  Butt  and  Parson's  black  champagne 
Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury-lane : 
There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 
The  Muse  found  Scroggen  stretched  beneath  a  rug. 
A  window,  patched  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 
That  dimly  showed  the  state  in  which  he  lay ; 
The  sanded  floor,  that  grits  beneath  the  tread  ; 
The  humid  wall,  with  paltry  pictures  spread ; 
The  royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view, 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  Royal  Martyr  drew ; 
The  Seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place, 
And  brave  Prince  William  showed  his  lampblack  face. 
The  morn  was  cold ;  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate,  unconscious  of  a  fire  ; 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored. 
And  five  cracked  teacups  dressed  the  chimney  board, 
A  night-cap  decked  his  brows  instead  of  bay ; 
A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day  !  "^ 

*  For  the  whole  description  cf.  "  The  ing  "   is  a   frame   of   useless   parings  of 

Deserted  Village,"  1.  225-236.    The  "  game  unpolished  wood;  "  lampblack  face  "  re- 

of  goose"  resembles  backgammon;  the  fers  to  the  cheap  silhouettes  of  William 

"  twelve  rules  "  ascribed  by  tradition  to  and    Mary,    solcf  in    large    numbers   by 

Charles    I    were    such    as    "  Reveal    no  Elizabeth  Pyberg  in  16^. 
secrets,"  "  Make  no  long  meals  ";  "  list- 


A  CLUB  OF  AUTHORS  351 

With  this  last  line  he  seemed  so  much  elated  that  he  was 
unable  to  proceed.  "  There,  gentlemen !  "  cries  he,  "  there  is  a 
description  for  you ;  Rabelais's  bedchamber  is  but  a  fool  to  it : 

'  A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day ! ' 

There  is  sound,  and  sense,  and  truth,  and  nature  in  the  trifling 
compass  of  ten  little  syllables." 

He  was  too  much  employed  in  self-admiration  to  observe  the 
company,  who,  by  nods,  winks,  shrugs,  and  stifled  laughter, 
testified  every  mark  of  contempt.  He  turned  severally  to  each 
for  their  opinion,  and  found  all,  however,  ready  to  applaud. 
One  swore  it  was  inimitable,  another  said  it  was  damned  fine, 
and  a  third  cried  out  in  a  rapture,  "  Clarissimo !  "  At  last,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  the  president,  "  And  pray,  Mr.  Squint,"  says 
he,  "  let  us  have  your  opinion."  "  Mine,"  answered  the  presi- 
dent, taking  the  manuscript  out  of  the  author's  hand ;  "  may 
this  glass  suffocate  me,  but  I  think  it  equal  to  anything  I  have 
seen;  and  I  fancy,"  continued  he,  doubling  up  the  poem  and 
forcing  it  into  the  author's  pocket,  "  that  you  will  get  great 
honor  when  it  comes  out;  ex  pede  Herculem,  we  are  satisfied, 
perfectly  satisfied."  The  author  made  two  or  three  attempts  to 
pull  it  out  a  second  time,  and  the  president  made  as  many  to 
prevent  him.  Thus,  though  with  reluctance,  he  was  at  last 
obliged  to  sit  down,  contented  with  the  commendations  for 
which  he  had  paid. 

When  this  tempest  of  poetry  and  praise  was  blown  over,  one 
of  the  company  changed  the  subject,  by  wondering  how  any 
man  could  be  so  dull  as  to  write  poetry  at  present,  since  prose 
itself  would  hardly  pay.  "  Would  you  think  it,  gentlemen," 
continued  he,  "  I  have  actually  written  last  week  sixteen  pray- 
ers, twelve  ribald  jests,  and  three  sermons,  all  at  the  rate  of  six- 
pence apiece ;  and,  what  is  still  more  extraordinary,  the  book- 
seller had  lost  by  the  bargain  ?  Such  sermons  would  once  have 
gained  me  a  prebend's  stall ;  but  now,  alas !  we  have  neither 
piety,  taste,  nor  humor  among  us.  Positively,  if  this  season 
does  not  turn  out  better  than  it  has  begun,  unless  the  ministry 
commit  some  blunders  to  furnish  us  with  a  new  topic  of  abuse, 
I  shall  resume  my  old  business  of  working  at  the  press,  instead 
of  finding  it  employment" 

The  whole  club  seemed  to  join  in  condemning  the  season  as 


352  GOLDSMITH 

one  of  the  worst  that  had  come  for  some  time :  a  gentleman  par- 
ticularly observed  that  the  nobility  were  never  known  to  sub- 
scribe worse  than  at  present.  "  I  know  not  how  it  happens," 
said  he,  "  though  I  follow  them  up  as  close  as  possible,  yet  I 
can  hardly  get  a  single  subscription  in  a  week.  The  houses  of 
the  great  are  as  inaccessible  as  a  frontier  garrison  at  midnight. 
I  never  see  a  nobleman's  door  half  opened,  that  some  surly  por- 
ter or  footman  does  not  stand  full  in  the  breach.  I  was  yester- 
day to  wait  with  a  subscription  proposal  upon  my  Lord  Squash, 
the  CreoHan.  I  had  posted  myself  at  his  door  the  whole  morn- 
ing, and  just  as  he  was  getting  into  his  coach,  thrust  my  pro- 
posal snug  into  his  hand,  folded  up  in  the  form  of  a  letter  from 
myself.  He  just  glanced  at  the  superscription,  and,  not  know- 
ing the  hand,  consigned  it  to  his  valet-de-chambre ;  this  respect- 
able personage  treated  it  as  his  master,  and  put  it  into  the  hands 
of  the  porter ;  the  porter  grasped  my  proposal  frowning ;  and, 
measuring  my  figure  from  top  to  toe,  put  it  back  in  my  own 
hands  unopened." 

"  To  the  devil  I  pitch  all  the  nobility,"  cries  a  little  man  in  a 
peculiar  accent ;  "  I  am  sure  they  have  of  late  used  me  most 
scurvily.  You  must  know,  gentlemen,  some  time  ago,  upon  the 
arrival  of  a  certain  noble  duke  from  his  travels,  I  sat  myself 
down,  and  vamped  up  a  fine  flaunting  poetical  panegyric,  which 
I  had  written  in  such  a  strain  that  I  fancied  it  would  have  even 
wheedled  milk  from  a  mouse.  In  this  I  represented  the  whole 
kingdom  welcoming  His  Grace  to  his  native  soil,  not  forgetting 
the  loss  France  and  Italy  would  sustain  in  their  arts  by  his  de- 
parture. I  expected  to  touch  for  a  bank-bill  at  least ;  so,  fold- 
ing up  my  verses  in  gilt  paper,  I  gave  my  last  half-crown  to  a 
genteel  servant  to  be  the  bearer.  My  letter  was  safely  conveyed 
to  His  Grace,  and  the  servant,  after  four  hours'  absence,  during 
which  time  I  led  the  life  of  a  fiend,  returned  with  a  letter  four 
times  as  big  as  mine.  Guess  my  ecstasy  at  the  prospect  of  so 
fine  a  return.  I  eagerly  took  the  packet  into  my  hands  that 
trembled  to  receive  it.  I  kept  it  some  time  unopened  before  me, 
brooding  over  the  expected  treasure  it  contained ;  when  open- 
ing it,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved,  gentlemen.  His  Grace  had  sent 
me,  in  payment  for  my  poem,  no  bank-bills,  but  six  copies  of 
verses,  each  longer  than  mine,  addressed  to  him  upon  the  same 
gccasion," 


A   CLUB   OF   AUTHORS  353 

"  A  nobleman,"  cries  a  member  who  had  hitherto  been  silent, 
"  is  created  as  much  for  the  confusion  of  us  authors  as  the  catch- 
pole.^  I'll  tell  you  a  story,  gentlemen,  which  is  as  true  as  that 
this  pipe  is  made  of  clay : — When  I  was  delivered  of  my  first 
book,  I  owed  my  tailor  for  a  suit  of  clothes  ;  but  that  is  nothing 
new,  you  know,  and  may  be  any  man's  case  as  well  as  mine. 
Well,  owing  him  for  a  suit  of  clothes,  and  hearing  that  my  book 
took  very  well,  he  sent  for  his  money,  and  insisted  upon  being 
paid  immediately.  Though  I  was  at  that  time  rich  in  fame — 
for  my  book  ran  like  wild-fire — yet  I  was  very  short  in  money, 
and,  being  unable  to  satisfy  his  demand,  prudently  resolved  to 
keep  my  chamber,  preferring  a  prison  of  my  own  choosing  at 
home  to  one  of  my  tailor's  choosing  abroad.  In  vain  the  baiUflfs 
used  all  their  arts  to  decoy  me  from  my  citadel ;  in  vain  they 
sent  to  let  me  know  that  a  gentleman  wanted  to  speak  with  me 
at  the  next  tavern ;  in  vain  they  came  with  an  urgent  message 
from  my  aunt  in  the  country  ;  in  vain  I  was  told  that  a  particular 
friend  was  at  the  point  of  death  and  desired  to  take  his  last  fare- 
well. I  was  deaf,  insensible,  rock,  adamant ;  the  bailiffs  could 
make  no  impression  on  my  hard  heart,  for  I  efifectually  kept  my 
liberty  by  never  stirring  out  of  the  room. 

"  This  was  very  well  for  a  fortnight ;  when  one  morning  I 
received  a  most  splendid  message  from  the  Earl  of  Doomsday, 
importing  that  he  had  read  my  book,  and  was  in  raptures  with 
every  line  of  it ;  he  impatiently  longed  to  see  the  author,  and 
had  some  designs  which  might  turn  out  greatly  to  my  advan- 
tage. I  paused  upon  the  contents  of  this  message,  and  found 
there  could  be  no  deceit,  for  the  card  was  gilt  at  the  edges,  and 
the  bearer,  I  was  told,  had  quite  the  looks  of  a  gentleman.  Wit- 
ness, ye  powers,  how  my  heart  triumphed  at  my  own  impor- 
tance !  I  saw  a  long  perspective  of  felicity  before  me ;  I  ap- 
plauded the  taste  of  the  times  which  never  saw  genius  forsaken  ; 
I  had  prepared  a  set  introductory  speech  for  the  occasion ;  five 
glaring  compliments  for  his  lordship,  and  two  more  modest 
for  myself.  The  next  morning,  therefore,  in  order  to  be  punc- 
tual to  my  appointment,  I  took  coach,  and  ordered  the  fellow  to 
drive  to  the  street  and  house  mentioned  in  his  lordship's  ad- 
dress. I  had  the  precaution  to  pull  up  the  window  as  I  went 
along,  to  keep  off  the  busy  part  of  mankind,  and,  big  with  ex- 

*  Sheriff's  officer. 

16— Vol.  57 


354  GOLDSMITH 

pectation,  fancied  the  coach  never  went  fast  enough.  At 
length,  however,  the  wished-for  moment  of  its  stopping  arrived : 
this  for  some  time  I  impatiently  expected,  and  letting  down  the 
window  in  a  transport,  in  order  to  take  a  previous  view  of  his 
lordship's  magnificent  palace  and  situation,  I  found — poison 
to  my  sight ! — I  found  myself  not  in  an  elegant  street,  but  a  pal- 
try lane,  not  at  a  nobleman's  door,  but  the  door  of  a  spong- 
ing-house.  I  found  the  coachman  had  all  this  while  been 
driving  me  to  jail;  and  I  saw  the  bailiff,  with  a  devil's  face, 
coming  out  to  secure  me." 

To  a  philosopher  no  circumstance,  however  trifling,  is  too 
minute ;  he  finds  instruction  and  entertainment  in  occurrences 
which  are  passed  over  by  the  rest  of  mankind  as  low,  trite,  and 
indifferent ;  it  is  from  the  number  of  these  particulars,  which  to 
many  appear  insignificant,  that  he  is  at  last  enabled  to  form  gen- 
eral conclusions  :  this,  therefore,  must  be  my  excuse  for  sending 
so  far  as  China  accounts  of  manners  and  follies,  which,  though 
minute  in  their  own  nature,  serve  more  truly  to  characterize  this 
people  than  histories  of  their  public  treaties,  courts,  ministers, 
negotiations  and  ambassadors. — Adieu. 


BEAU   TIBBS 

THE  people  of  London  are  as  fond  of  walking  as  our 
friends  at  Pekin  of  riding:  one  of  the  principal  enter- 
tainments of  the  citizens  here  in  summer  is  to  repair 
about  nightfall  to  a  garden  ^  not  far  from  town,  where  they 
walk  about,  show  their  best  clothes  and  best  faces,  and  listen 
to  a  concert  provided  for  the  occasion. 

I  accepted  an  invitation  a  few  evenings  ago  from  my  old 
friend,  the  Man  in  Black,  to  be  one  of  a  party  that  was  to  sup 
there ;  and  at  the  appointed  hour  waited  upon  him  at  his  lodg- 
ings. There  I  found  the  company  assembled,  and  expecting  my 
arrival.  Our  party  consisted  of  my  friend,  in  superlative  finery, 
his  stockings  rolled,  a  black  velvet  waistcoat,  which  was  former- 
ly new,  and  a  gray  wig  combed  down  in  imitation  of  hair;  a 
pawnbroker's  widow,  of  whom,  by  the  by,  my  friend  was  a 
professed  admirer,  dressed  out  in  green  damask,  with  three  gold 
rings  on  every  finger ;  Mr.  Tibbs,  the  second-rate  beau  I  have 
formerly  described ;  together  with  his  lady,  in  flimsy  silk,  dirty 
gauze  instead  of  linen,  and  a  hat  as  big  as  an  umbrella. 

Our  first  difficulty  was  in  settling  how  we  should  set  out. 
Mrs.  Tibbs  had  a  natural  aversion  to  the  water,  and  the  widow, 
being  a  little  in  flesh,  as  warmly  protested  against  walking ;  a 
coach  was  therefore  agreed  upon ;  which  being  too  small  to 
carry  five,  Mr.  Tibbs  consented  to  sit  in  his  wife's  lap. 

In  this  manner,  therefore,  we  set  forward,  being  entertained 
by  the  way  with  the  bodings  of  Mr.  Tibbs,  who  assured  us  he 
did  not  expect  to  see  a  single  creature  for  the  evening  above 
the  degree  of  a  cheesemonger ;  that  this  was  the  last  night  of  the 
gardens,  and  that  consequently  we  should  be  pestered  with  the 
nobility  and  gentry  from  Thames-street  and  Crooked-lane ;  with 

»  Spring   Garden,   the  earlier  name  of  pressed   by  the   foot   sprinkled   the   by- 

the  gardens,  was  taken  from  a  pleasure  slanders."    For  a  charming   account  of 

resort  near  St.  James's  Park,  which  con-  Vauxhall   and   its   associations   see    Mr. 

tained    a    "  playfully    contrived    water-  Dobson's  essay  referred  to  in  the  note 

work,     which     on    being     unguardedly  on  page  220. 

355 


356  GOLDSMITH 

several  other  prophetic  ejaculations,  probably  inspired  by  the 
uneasiness  of  his  situation. 

The  illuminations  began  before  we  arrived,  and  I  must  con- 
fess, that  upon  entering  the  gardens  I  found  every  sense  over- 
paid with  more  than  expected  pleasure :  the  lights  everywhere 
glimmering  through  the  scarcely  moving  trees — the  full-bodied 
concert  bursting  on  the  stillness  of  the  night — the  natural  con- 
cert of  the  birds,  in  the  more  retired  part  of  the  grove,  vying 
with  that  which  was  formed  by  art — the  company  gayly  dressed, 
looking  satisfaction — and  the  tables  spread  with  various  deli- 
cacies— all  conspired  to  fill  my  imagination  with  the  visionary 
happiness  of  the  Arabian  lawgiver,  and  lifted  me  into  an  ecstasy 
of  admiration.  "  Head  of  Confucius,"  cried  I  to  my  friend, 
"  this  is  fine  !  this  united  rural  beauty  with  courtly  magnificence  I 
if  we  except  the  virgins  of  immortality,  that  hang  on  every 
tree,  I  do  not  see  how  this  falls  short  of  Mahomet's  paradise !  " 
"  As  for  that,"  cries  my  friend,  "  if  ladies,  as  plenty  as  apples  in 
autumn,  can  content  you,  I  fancy  we  have  no  need  to  go  to 
heaven  for  paradise." 

I  was  going  to  second  his  remarks,  when  we  were  called  to  a 
consultation  by  Mr.  Tibbs  and  the  rest  of  the  company,  to 
know  in  what  manner  we  were  to  lay  out  the  evening  to  the 
greatest  advantage.  Mrs.  Tibbs  was  for  keeping  the  genteel 
walk  of  the  garden,  where,  she  observed,  there  was  always  the 
very  best  company ;  the  widow,  on  the  contrary,  who  came  but 
once  a  season,  was  for  securing  a  good  standing  place  to  see  the 
waterworks,  which  she  assured  us  would  begin  in  less  than  an 
hour  at  furthest ;  a  dispute  therefore  began,  and  as  it  was  man- 
aged between  two  of  very  opposite  characters,  it  threatened  to 
grow  more  bitter  at  every  reply.  Mrs.  Tibbs  wondered  how 
people  could  pretend  to  know  the  polite  world,  who  had  re- 
ceived all  their  rudiments  of  breeding  behind  a  counter;  to 
which  the  other  replied,  that  though  some  people  sat  behind 
counters,  yet  they  could  sit  at  the  head  of  their  own  tables  too, 
and  carve  three  good  dishes  of  hot  meat  whenever  they  thought 
proper ;  which  was  more  than  some  people  could  say  for  them- 
selves, that  hardly  knew  a  rabbit  and  onions  from  a  green  goose 
and  gooseberries. 

It  is  hard  to  say  where  this  might  have  ended,  had  not  the  hus- 
band, who  probably  knew  the  impetuosity  of  his  wife's  disposi- 


BEAU   TIBBS  357 

tion,  proposed  to  end  the  dispute  by  adjourning  to  a  box,  and 
try  if  there  was  anything  to  be  had  for  supper  that  was  support- 
able. To  this  we  all  consented ;  but  here  a  new  distress  arose; 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tibbs  would  sit  in  none  but  genteel  box — a  box 
where  they  might  see  and  be  seen — one,  as  they  expressed  it, 
in  the  very  focus  of  public  view ;  but  such  a  box  was  not  easy  to 
be  obtained,  for  though  we  were  perfectly  convinced  of  our  own 
gentility,  and  the  gentility  of  our  appearance,  yet  we  found  it  a 
difficult  matter  to  persuade  the  keepers  of  the  boxes  to  be  of  our 
opinion ;  they  chose  to  reserve  genteel  boxes  for  what  they 
judged  more  genteel  company. 

At  last,  however,  we  were  fixed,  though  somewhat  obscurely, 
and  supplied  with  the  usual  entertainment  of  the  place.  The 
widow  found  the  supper  excellent,  but  Mrs.  Tibbs  thought 
everything  detestable.  "  Come,  come,  my  dear,"  cried  the  hus- 
band, by  way  of  consolation,  "  to  be  sure  we  can't  find  such 
dressing  here  as  we  have  at  Lord  Crump's  or  Lady  Crimp's ; 
but,  for  Vauxhall  dressing,  it  is  pretty  good:  it  is  not  their 
victuals,  indeed,  I  find  fault  with,  but  their  wine ;  their  wine," 
cries  he,  drinking  off  a  glass,  "  indeed,  is  most  abominable." 

By  this  last  contradiction  the  widow  was  fairly  conquered  in 
point  of  politeness.  She  perceived  now  that  she  had  no  preten- 
sions in  the  world  to  taste ;  her  very  senses  were  vulgar,  since 
she  had  praised  detestable  custard,  and  smacked  at  wretched 
wine  ;  she  was  therefore  content  to  yield  the  victory,  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  night  to  listen  and  improve.  It  is  true,  she  would 
now  and  then  forget  herself,  and  confess  she  was  pleased ;  but 
they  soon  brought  her  back  again  to  miserable  refinement.  She 
once  praised  the  painting  of  the  box  in  which  we  were  sitting, 
but  was  soon  convinced  that  such  paltry  pieces  ought  rather  to 
excite  horror  than  satisfaction:  she  ventured  again  to  com- 
mend one  of  the  singers,  but  Mrs.  Tibbs  soon  let  her  know,  in 
the  style  of  a  connoisseur,  that  the  singer  in  question  had  neither 
ear,  voice,  nor  judgment. 

Mr.  Tibbs,  now  willing  to  prove  that  his  wife's  pretensions  to 
music  were  just,  entreated  her  to  favor  the  company  with  a 
song ;  but  to  this  she  gave  a  positive  denial — "  For  you  know 
very  well,  my  dear,"  says  she,  "  that  I  am  not  in  voice  to-day, 
and  when  one's  voice  is  not  equal  to  one's  judgment,  what  sig- 
nifies singing?  besides,  as  there  is  no  accompaniment,  it  would 


358 


GOLDSMITH 


be  but  spoiling  music."  All  these  excuses,  however,  were  over- 
ruled by  the  rest  of  the  company,  who,  though  one  would  think 
they  already  had  music  enough,  joined  in  the  entreaty.  But 
particularly  the  widow,  now  willing  to  convince  the  company  of 
her  breeding,  pressed  so  warmly,  that  she  seemed  determined 
to  take  no  refusal.  At  last,  then,  the  lady  complied,  and  after 
humming  for  some  minutes,  began  with  such  a  voice,  and  such 
affectation,  as  I  could  perceive  gave  but  little  satisfaction  to  any 
except  her  husband.  He  sat  with  rapture  in  his  eye,  and  beat 
time  with  his  hand  on  the  table. 

You  must  observe,  my  friend,  that  it  is  the  custom  of  this 
country,  when  a  lady  or  gentleman  happens  to  sing,  for  the 
company  to  sit  as  mute  and  motionless  as  statues.  Every  feat- 
ure, every  limb,  must  seem  to  correspond  in  fixed  attention; 
and  while  the  song  continues,  they  are  to  remain  in  a  state  of 
universal  petrifaction.  In  this  mortifying  situation  we  had  con- 
tinued for  some  time,  listening  to  the  song,  and  looking  with 
tranquillity,  when  the  master  of  the  box  came  to  inform  us, 
that  the  waterworks  -  were  going  to  begin.  At  this  information 
I  could  instantly  perceive  the  widow  bounce  from  her  seat; 
but,  correcting  herself,  she  sat  down  again,  repressed  by  mo- 
tives of  good  breeding.  Mrs.  Tibbs,  who  had  seen  the  water- 
works an  hundred  times,  resolving  not  to  be  interrupted,  con- 
tinued her  song  without  any  share  of  mercy,  nor  had  the 
smallest  pity  on  our  impatience.  The  widow's  face,  I  own,  gave 
me  high  entertainment ;  in  it  I  could  plainly  read  the  struggle 
she  felt  between  good  breeding  and  curiosity  ;  she  talked  of  the 
waterworks  the  whole  evening  before,  and  seemed  to  have  come 
merely  in  order  to  see  them  ;  but  then  she  could  not  bounce 
out  in  the  very  middle  of  a  song,  for  that  would  be  forfeiting  all 
pretensions  to  high  life,  or  high-lived  company,  ever  after.  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  therefore,  kept  on  singing,  and  we  continued  to  listen,  till 
at  last,  when  the  song  was  just  concluded,  the  waiter  came  to 
inform  us  that  the  waterworks  were  over. 

"  The  waterworks  over !  "  cried  the  widow  ;  "  the  water- 
works over  already !   that's  impossible !   they  can't  be  over  so 

•"In   Goldsmith's  day   it    (the   water  cade.'    At  the  proper  moment  this  last 

show)  was  still  in  the  elementary  stage  presented  the  exact  appearance  of  water 

described  by  Sylvanus  Urban  in  August,  flowing  down  a  declivity,   rising   up   in 

1765.  that  is  to  say,  it  exhibited  '  a  beau-  a  foam  at  the  bottom,  and  then  gliding 

tiful    landscape    in    perspective,    with    a  away." — Dobson's   "  Vignettes,"   vol.   i. 

miller's  bouse,  a  water-mill,  and  a  cas-  p.  24,1. 


BEAU   TIBBS  359 

soon !  "  "  It  is  not  my  business,"  replied  the  fellow,  "  to  con- 
tradict your  ladyship ;  I'll  run  again  and  see."  He  went,  and 
soon  returned  with  a  confirmation  of  the  dismal  tidings.  No 
ceremony  could  now  bind  my  friend's  disappointed  mistress. 
She  testified  her  displeasure  in  the  openest  manner ;  in  short, 
she  now  began  to  find  fault  in  turn,  and  at  last  insisted  upon 
going  home,  just  at  the  time  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tibbs  assured  the 
company  that  the  polite  hours  were  going  to  begin,  and  that  the 
ladies  would  instantaneously  be  entertained  with  the  horns.— 
Adieu. 


A   CITY    NIGHT-PIECE 

THE  clock  just  struck  two,  the  expiring  taper  rises  and 
sinks  in  the  socket,  the  watchman  forgets  the  hour  in 
slumber,  the  laborious  and  the  happy  are  at  rest,  and 
nothing  wakes  but  meditation,  guilt,  revelry,  and  despair.  The 
drunkard  once  more  fills  the  destroying  bowl,  the  robber  walks 
his  midnight  round,  and  the  suicide  Hfts  his  guilty  arm  against 
his  own  sacred  person. 

Let  me  no  longer  waste  the  night  over  the  page  of  antiquity, 
or  the  sallies  of  contemporary  genius,  but  pursue  the  solitary 
walk,  where  vanity,  ever  changing,  but  a  few  hours  past  walked 
before  me;  where  she  kept  up  the  pageant,  and  now,  like  a 
froward  child,  seems  hushed  with  her  own  importunities. 

What  a  gloom  hangs  all  around!  The  dying  lamp  feebly 
emits  a  yellow  gleam ;  no  sound  in  heard  but  of  the  chiming 
clock,  or  the  distant  watch-dog.  All  the  bustle  of  human  pride 
is  forgotten  ;  an  hour  like  this  may  well  display  the  emptiness  of 
human  vanity. 

There  will  come  a  time  when  this  temporary  solitude  may  be 
made  continual,  and  the  city  itself,  like  its  inhabitants,  fade 
away,  and  leave  a  desert  in  its  room. 

What  cities  as  great  as  this  have  once  triumphed  in  existence, 
had  their  victories  as  great,  joy  as  just,  and  as  unbounded ;  and, 
with  short-sighted  presumption,  promised  themselves  immor- 
tality !  Posterity  can  hardly  trace  the  situation  of  some ;  the 
sorrowful  traveller  wanders  over  the  awful  ruins  of  others  ;  and, 
as  he  beholds,  he  learns  wisdom,  and  feels  the  transience  of  every 
sublunary  possession. 

"  Here,"  he  cries,  "  stood  their  citadel,  now  grown  over  with 
weeds ;  there  their  senate  house,  but  now  the  haunt  of  every 
noxious  reptile  ;  temples  and  theatres  stood  here,  now  only  an 
undistinguished  heap  of  ruin.  They  are  fallen,  for  luxury  and 
avarice  first  made  them  feeble.  The  rewards  of  the  State  were 
conferred  on  amusing  and  not  on  useful  members  of  society, 

361 


362  GOLDSMITH 

Their  riches  and  opulence  invited  the  invaders,  who,  though  at 
first  repulsed,  returned  again,  conquered  by  perseverance,  and 
at  last  swept  the  defendants  into  undistinguished  destruction." 

How  few  appear  in  those  streets  which  but  some  few  hours 
ago  were  crowded !  and  those  who  appear  now  no  longer  wear 
their  daily  mask,  nor  attempt  to  hide  their  lewdness  or  their 
misery. 

But  who  are  those  who  make  the  streets  their  couch,  and  find 
a  short  repose  from  wretchedness  at  the  doors  of  the  opulent? 
These  are  strangers,  wanderers,  and  orphans,  whose  circum- 
stances are  too  humble  to  expect  redress,  and  whose  distresses 
are  too  great  even  for  pity.  Their  wretchedness  excites  rather 
horror  than  pity.  Some  are  without  the  covering  even  of  rags, 
and  others  emaciated  with  disease ;  the  world  has  disclaimed 
them ;  society  turns  its  back  upon  their  distress,  and  has  given 
them  up  to  nakedness  and  hunger.  These  poor  shivering  fe- 
males have  once  seen  happier  days,  and  been  flattered  into 
beauty.  They  have  been  prostituted  to  the  gay  luxurious  vil- 
lain, and  are  now  turned  out  to  meet  the  severity  of  winter. 
Perhaps,  now  lying  at  the  doors  of  their  betrayers,  they  sue  to 
wretches  whose  hearts  are  insensible,  to  debauchees  who  may 
curse  but  will  not  relieve  them. 

Why,  why  was  I  born  a  man,  and  yet  see  the  sufferings  of 
wretches  I  cannot  relieve?  Poor  houseless  creatures!  the 
world  will  give  you  reproaches,  but  will  not  give  you  relief. 
The  slightest  misfortunes  of  the  great,  the  most  imaginary  un- 
easiness of  the  rich,  are  aggravated  with  all  the  power  of  elo- 
quence, and  held  up  to  engage  our  attention  and  sympathetic 
sorrow.  The  poor  weep  unheeded,  persecuted  by  every  subor- 
dinate species  of  tyranny ;  and  every  law  which  gives  others 
security  becomes  an  enemy  to  them. 

Why  was  this  heart  of  mine  formed  with  so  much  sensibility? 
or  why  was  not  my  fortune  adapted  to  its  impulse  ?  Tender- 
ness, without  a  capacity  of  relieving,  only  makes  the  man  who 
feels  it  more  wretched  than  the  object  which  sues  for  assistance. 
— Adieu. 


ON     TASTE 


BY 


EDMUND    BURKE 


EDMUND    BURKE 

1729— 1797 

Burke  was  a  man  of  powerful  and  versatile  genius,  carrying  the 
fervor  and  imagery  of  a  great  orator  into  philosophical  discussion,  and 
uniting  in  himself  the  highest  qualities  of  the  statesman,  the  writer, 
and  the  philosopher.  His  predominant  quality  was  a  burning  and 
dazzling  enthusiasm  for  whatever  object  attracted  his  sympathies,  and 
in  the  service  of  this  enthusiasm  he  impressed  all  the  disciplined  forces 
of  his  learning,  his  logic,  and  his  historical  and  political  knowledge. 
His  mind  resembled  the  Puritan  regiments  of  Cromwell,  which  moved 
to  battle  with  the  precision  of  machines,  while  burning  with  the  fiercest 
ardor  of  fanaticism.  His  sympathies  were  indeed  generally  excited  by 
generous  pity  for  misfortune,  and  horror  at  cruelty  and  injustice;  but, 
as  in  the  case  of  his  rupture  with  Fox,  his  splendid  oratorical  display 
in  the  impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings,  and  his  furious  denunciation 
of  the  French  Revolution,  the  very  excess  of  his  tenderness  made  him 
cruel,  and  the  vehemence  of  his  detestation  of  injustice  made  him  un- 
just. He  was  the  son  of  a  Dublin  attorney,  came  early  to  England  to 
study  law,  but  commenced  his  career  as  a  miscellaneous  writer  in 
magazines.  He  was  the  founder  and  first  author  of  the  "  Annual  Reg- 
ister," a  useful  epitome  of  political  and  general  facts,  and  gained  his 
first  reputation  by  his  "  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,"  a  short 
treatise  in  which  ingenuity  is  more  perceptible  than  solidity  of  reason- 
ing, and  he  became  one  of  the  most  constant  and  brilliant  ornaments 
of  the  club  where  Johnson,  Reynolds,  and  Goldsmith  used  to  assemble. 
Burke's  powers  of  conversation  were  most  extraordinary;  his  immense 
and  varied  stores  of  knowledge  were  poured  forth  in  language  un- 
equalled for  its  splendor  of  illustration;  and  Johnson,  jealous  as  he 
was  of  his  own  social  supremacy,  confessed  that  in  Burke  he  encoun- 
tered a  fully  equal  antagonist.  "  On  Taste  "  was  written  as  an  intro- 
ductory essay  to  Burke's  "  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful." 


364 


ON   TASTE 

ON  a  superficial  view  we  may  seem  to  differ  very  widely 
from  each  other  in  our  reasonings,  and  no  less  in  our 
pleasures :  but,  notwithstanding  this  difference,  which 
I  think  to  be  rather  apparent  than  real,  it  is  probable  that  the 
standard  both  of  reason  and  taste  is  the  same  in  all  human 
creatures;  for,  if  there  were  not  some  principles  of  judgment 
as  well  as  of  sentiment  common  to  all  mankind,  no  hold  could 
possibly  be  taken  either  on  their  reason  or  their  passions  suf- 
ficient to  maintain  the  ordinary  correspondence  of  life.  It 
appears,  indeed,  to  be  generally  acknowledged,  that  with  re- 
gard to  truth  and  falsehood  there  is  something  fixed.  We  find 
people  in  their  disputes  continually  appealing  to  certain  tests 
and  standards,  which  are  allowed  on  all  sides,  and  are  sup- 
posed to  be  established  in  our  common  nature.  But  there  is 
not  the  same  obvious  concurrence  in  any  uniform  or  settled 
principles  which  relate  to  taste.  It  is  even  commonly  supposed 
that  this  delicate  and  aerial  faculty,  which  seems  too  volatile 
to  endure  even  the  chains  of  a  definition,  cannot  be  properly 
tried  by  any  test,  nor  regulated  by  any  standard.  There  is  so 
continual  a  call  for  the  exercise  of  the  reasoning  faculty,  and 
it  is  so  much  strengthened  by  perpetual  contention,  that  cer- 
tain maxims  of  right  reason  seem  to  be  tacitly  settled  amongst 
the  most  ignorant.  The  learned  have  improved  on  this  rude 
science,  and  reduced  those  maxims  into  a  system.  If  taste 
had  not  been  so  happily  cultivated,  it  was  not  that  the  subject 
was  barren,  but  that  the  laborers  were  few  or  negligent;  for, 
to  say  the  truth,  there  are  not  the  same  interesting  motives  to 
impel  us  to  fix  the  one  which  urge  us  to  ascertain  the  other. 
And,  after  all,  if  men  differ  in  their  opinion  concerning  such 
matters  their  difference  is  not  attended  with  the  same  impor- 
tant consequences ;  else  I  make  no  doubt  but  that  the  logic  of 
taste,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  might  very  possibly 

365 


366  BURKE 

be  as  well  digested,  and  we  might  come  to  discuss  matters  of 
this  nature  with  as  much  certainty  as  those  which  seem  more 
immediately  within  the  province  of  mere  reason.  And  indeed 
it  is  very  necessary,  at  the  entrance  into  such  an  inquiry  as  our 
present,  to  make  this  point  as  clear  as  possible ;  for  if  taste 
has  no  fixed  principles,  if  the  imagination  is  not  affected  ac- 
cording to  some  invariable  and  certain  laws,  our  labor  is  like 
to  be  employed  to  very  little  purpose;  as  it  must  be  judged 
a  useless,  if  not  an  absurd,  undertaking,  to  lay  down  rules 
for  caprice,  and  to  set  up  for  a  legislator  of  whims  and  fancies. 
The  term  taste,  like  all  other  figurative  terms,  is  not  ex- 
tremely accurate:  the  thing  which  we  understand  by  it  is  far 
from  a  simple  and  determinate  idea  in  the  minds  of  most  men, 
and  it  is  therefore  liable  to  uncertainty  and  confusion.  I  have 
no  great  opinion  of  a  definition,  the  celebrated  remedy  for  the 
cure  of  this  disorder.  For,  when  we  define,  we  seem  in  danger 
of  circumscribing  nature  within  the  bounds  of  our  own  no- 
tions, which  we  often  take  up  by  hazard,  or  embrace  on  trust, 
or  form  out  of  a  limited  and  partial  consideration  of  the  object 
before  us,  instead  of  extending  our  ideas  to  take  in  all  that 
nature  comprehends,  according  to  her  manner  of  combining. 
We  are  limited  in  our  inquiry  by  the  strict  laws  to  which  we 
have  submitted  at  our  setting  out. 

"Circa  vilem  patulumque  morabimur  orbem^ 
Undepudorproferrepedem  vetat  aut  operis  lex." 

A  definition  may  be  very  exact,  and  yet  go  but  a  very  little 
way  towards  informing  us  of  the  nature  of  the  thing  defined; 
but  let  the  virtue  of  a  definition  be  what  it  will,  in  the  order 
of  things,  it  seems  rather  to  follow  than  to  precede  our  in- 
quiry, of  which  it  ought  to  be  considered  as  the  result.  It 
must  be  acknowledged  that  the  methods  of  disquisition  and 
teaching  may  be  sometimes  different,  and  on  very  good  reason 
undoubtedly ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  am  convinced  that  the  method 
of  teaching  which  approaches  most  nearly  to  the  method  of 
investigation  is  incomparably  the  best ;  since,  not  content  with 
serving  up  a  few  barren  and  lifeless  truths,  it  leads  to  the 
stock  on  which  they  grew ;  it  tends  to  set  the  reader  himself 
in  the  track  of  invention,  and  to  direct  him  into  those  paths 


ON   TASTE  367 

in  which  the  author  has  made  his  own  discoveries,  if  he  should 
be  so  happy  as  to  have  made  any  that  are  valuable. 

But,  to  cut  off  all  pretence  for  cavilling,  I  mean  by  the  word 
taste  no  more  than  that  faculty  or  those  faculties  of  the  mind 
which  are  affected  with,  or  which  form  a  judgment  of,  the 
works  of  imagination  and  the  elegant  arts.  This  is,  I  think, 
the  most  general  idea  of  that  word,  and  what  is  the  least  con- 
nected with  any  particular  theory.  And  my  point,  in  this  in- 
quiry, is  to  find  whether  there  are  any  principles,  on  which  the 
imagination  is  affected,  so  common  to  all,  so  grounded  and 
certain,  as  to  supply  the  means  of  reasoning  satisfactorily  about 
them.  And  such  principles  of  taste  I  fancy  there  are,  however 
paradoxical  it  may  seem  to  those  who,  on  a  superficial  view, 
imagine  that  there  is  so  great  a  diversity  of  tastes,  both  in  kind 
and  degree,  that  nothing  can  be  more  indeterminate. 

All  the  natural  powers  in  man,  which  I  know,  that  are  con- 
versant about  external  objects,  are  the  senses,  the  imagination, 
and  the  judgment.  And,  first,  with  regard  to  the  senses.  We 
do,  and  we  must,  suppose,  that,  as  the  conformation  of  their 
organs  is  nearly  or  altogether  the  same  in  all  men,  so  the 
manner  of  perceiving  external  objects  is  in  all  men  the  same, 
or  with  little  difference.  We  are  satisfied  that  what  appears 
to  be  light  to  one  eye  appears  light  to  another ;  that  what  seems 
sweet  to  one  palate  is  sweet  to  another;  that  what  is  dark  and 
bitter  to  this  man  is  likewise  dark  and  bitter  to  that:  and  we 
conclude  in  the  same  manner  of  great  and  little,  hard  and  soft, 
hot  and  cold,  rough  and  smooth,  and  indeed  of  all  the  natural 
qualities  and  affections  of  bodies.  If  we  suffer  ourselves  to 
imagine  that  their  senses  present  to  different  men  different 
images  of  things,  this  sceptical  proceeding  will  make  every 
sort  of  reasoning,  on  every  subject,  vain  and  frivolous,  even 
that  sceptical  reasoning  itself  which  had  persuaded  us  to  enter- 
tain a  doubt  concerning  the  agreement  of  our  perceptions. 
But,  as  there  will  be  little  doubt  that  bodies  present  similar 
images  to  the  whole  species,  it  must  necessarily  be  allowed  that 
the  pleasures  and  the  pains  which  every  object  excites  in  one 
man,  it  must  raise  in  all  mankind,  whilst  it  operates  naturally, 
simply,  and  by  its  proper  powers  only;  for,  if  we  deny  this, 
we  must  imagine  that  the  same  cause,  operating  in  the  same 
manner,  and  on  subjects  of  the  same  kind,  will  produce  differ- 


363  BURKE 

ent  effects,  which  would  be  highly  absurd.  Let  us  first  con- 
sider this  point  in  the  sense  of  taste,  and  the  rather  as  the 
faculty  in  question  has  taken  its  name  from  that  sense.  All 
men  are  agreed  to  call  vinegar  sour,  honey  sweet,  and  aloes 
bitter :  and  as  they  are  all  agreed  in  finding  these  qualities  in 
those  objects,  they  do  not  in  the  least  differ  concerning  their 
eft'ects  with  regard  to  pleasure  and  pain.  They  all  concur  in 
calling  sweetness  pleasant,  and  sourness  and  bitterness  unpleas- 
ant. Here  there  is  no  diversity  in  their  sentiments;  and  that 
there  is  not  appears  fully  from  the  consent  of  all  men  in  the 
metaphors  which  are  taken  from  the  sense  of  taste.  A  sour 
temper,  bitter  expressions,  bitter  curses,  a  bitter  fate,  are  terms 
well  and  strongly  understood  by  all.  And  we  are  altogether 
as  well  understood  when  we  say  a  sweet  disposition,  a  sweet 
person,  a  sweet  condition,  and  the  like.  It  is  confessed  that 
custom  and  some  other  causes  have  made  many  deviations 
from  the  natural  pleasures  or  pains  which  belong  to  these  sev- 
eral tastes ;  but  then  the  power  of  distinguishing  between  the 
natural  and  the  acquired  relish  remains  to  the  very  last.  A 
man  frequently  comes  to  prefer  the  taste  of  tobacco  to  that  of 
sugar,  and  the  flavor  of  vinegar  to  that  of  milk ;  but  this  makes 
no  confusion  in  tastes,  whilst  he  is  sensible  that  the  tobacco  and 
vinegar  are  not  sweet,  and  whilst  he  knows  that  habit  alone 
has  reconciled  his  palate  to  these  alien  pleasures.  Even  with 
such  a  person  we  may  speak,  and  with  sufficient  precision, 
concerning  tastes.  But  should  any  man  be  found  who  de- 
clares that  to  him  tobacco  has  a  taste  like  sugar,  and  that  he 
cannot  distinguish  between  milk  and  vinegar ;  or  that  tobacco 
and  vinegar  are  sweet,  milk  bitter,  and  sugar  sour;  we  im- 
mediately conclude  that  the  organs  of  this  man  are  out  of 
order,  and  that  his  palate  is  utterly  vitiated.  We  are  as  far 
from  conferring  with  such  a  person  upon  tastes  as  from  rea- 
soning concerning  the  relations  of  quantity  with  one  who 
should  deny  that  all  the  parts  together  were  equal  to  the  whole. 
We  do  not  call  a  man  of  this  kind  wrong  in  his  notions,  but 
absolutely  mad.  Exceptions  of  this  sort,  in  either  way,  do  not 
at  all  impeach  our  general  rule,  nor  make  us  conclude  that 
men  have  various  principles  concerning  the  relations  of  quan- 
tity, or  the  taste  of  things.  So  that  when  it  is  said  taste  can- 
not be  disputed,  it  can  only  mean,  that  no  one  can  strictly, 


ON  TASTE  369 

answer  what  pleasure  or  pain  some  particular  man  may  find 
from  the  taste  of  some  particular  thing.  This,  indeed,  can- 
not be  disputed ;  but  we  may  dispute,  and  with  sufficient  clear- 
ness too,  concerning  the  things  which  are  naturally  pleasing 
or  disagreeable  to  the  sense.  But  when  we  talk  of  any  peculiar 
or  acquired  relish,  then  we  must  know  the  habits,  the  preju- 
dices, or  the  distempers  of  this  particular  man,  and  we  mu** 
draw  our  conclusion  from  those. 

This  agreement  of  mankind  is  not  confined  to  the  taste  solely. 
The  principle  of  pleasure  derived  from  sight  is  the  same  in 
all.  Light  is  more  pleasing  than  darkness.  Summer,  when 
the  earth  is  clad  in  green,  when  the  heavens  are  serene  and 
bright,  is  more  agreeable  than  winter,  when  everything  makes 
a  different  appearance.  I  never  remember  that  anything  beau- 
tiful, whether  a  man,  a  beast,  a  bird,  or  a  plant,  was  ever 
shown,  though  it  were  to  an  hundred  people,  that  they  did  not 
all  immediately  agree  that  it  was  beautiful,  though  some  might 
have  thought  that  it  fell  short  of  their  expectation,  or  that 
other  things  were  still  finer.  I  believe  no  man  thinks  a  goose 
to  be  more  beautiful  than  a  swan,  or  imagines  that  what  they 
call  a  Friesland  hen  excels  a  peacock.  It  must  be  observed,  too, 
that  the  pleasures  of  the  sight  are  not  near  so  complicated  and 
confused  and  altered  by  unnatural  habits  and  associations,  as 
the  pleasures  of  the  taste  are;  because  the  pleasures  of  the 
sight  more  commonly  acquiesce  in  themselves,  and  are  not  so 
often  altered  by  considerations  which  are  independent  of  the 
sight  itself.  But  things  do  not  spontaneously  present  them- 
selves to  the  palate  as  they  do  to  the  sight :  they  are  generally 
applied  to  it,  either  as  food  or  as  medicine ;  and,  from  the 
qualities  which  they  possess  for  nutritive  or  medicinal  pur- 
poses, they  often  form  the  palate  by  degrees,  and  by  force  of 
these  associations.  Thus,  opium  is  pleasing  to  Turks  on  ac- 
count of  the  agreeable  delirium  it  produces.  Tobacco  is  the 
delight  of  Dutchmen ;  as  it  diffuses  a  torpor  and  pleasing 
stupefaction.  Fermented  spirits  please  our  common  people, 
because  they  banish  care,  and  all  considerations  of  future  or 
present  evils.  All  of  these  would  lie  absolutely  neglected  if 
their  properties  had  originally  gone  no  further  than  the  taste; 
but  all  these,  together  with  tea  and  coffee,  and  some  other 
things,  have  passed  from  the  apothecary's  shop  to  our  tables, 


370  BURKE 

and  were  taken  for  health  long  before  they  were  thought  of 
for  pleasure.  The  effect  of  the  drug  has  made  us  use  it  fre- 
quently ;  and  frequent  use,  combined  with  the  agreeable  effect, 
has  made  the  taste  itself  at  last  agreeable.  But  this  does  not 
in  the  least  perplex  our  reasoning;  because  we  distinguish  to 
the  last  the  acquired  from  the  natural  relish.  In  describing 
the  taste  of  an  unknown  fruit,  you  would  scarcely  say  that  it 
had  a  sweet  and  pleasant  flavor  like  tobacco,  opium,  or  garlic, 
although  you  spoke  to  those  who  were  in  the  constant  use  of 
these  drugs,  and  had  great  pleasure  in  them.  There  is  in  all 
men  a  sufficient  remembrance  of  the  original  natural  causes  of 
pleasure,  to  enable  them  to  bring  all  things  offered  to  their 
senses  to  that  standard,  and  to  regulate  their  feelings  and 
opinions  by  it.  Suppose  one  who  had  so  vitiated  his  palate  as 
to  take  more  pleasure  in  the  taste  of  opium  than  in  that  of 
butter  or  honey,  to  be  presented  with  a  bolus  of  squills ;  there 
is  hardly  any  doubt  but  that  he  would  prefer  the  butter  or 
honey  to  this  nauseous  morsel,  or  to  any  other  bitter  drug  to 
which  he  had  not  been  accustomed ;  which  proves  that  his 
palate  was  naturally  like  that  of  other  men  in  all  things,  that  it 
is  still  like  the  palate  of  other  men  in  many  things,  and  only 
vitiated  in  some  particular  points.  For,  in  judging  of  any 
new  thing,  even  of  a  taste  similar  to  that  which  he  has  been 
formed  by  habit  to  like,  he  finds  his  palate  affected  in  the 
natural  manner,  and  on  the  common  principles.  Thus  the  pleas- 
ure of  all  the  senses,  of  the  sight,  and  even  of  the  taste,  that 
most  ambiguous  of  the  senses,  is  the  same  in  all,  high  and  low, 
learned  and  unlearned. 

Besides  the  ideas,  with  their  annexed  pains  and  pleasures, 
which  are  presented  by  the  sense,  the  mind  of  man  possesses 
a  sort  of  creative  power  of  its  own ;  either  in  representing  at 
pleasure  the  images  of  things  in  the  order  and  manner  in  which 
they  were  received  by  the  senses,  or  in  combining  those  images 
in  a  new  manner,  and  according  to  a  different  order.  This 
power  is  called  imagination :  and  to  this  belongs  whatever  is 
called  wit,  fancy,  invention,  and  the  like.  But  it  must  be 
observed  that  the  power  of  the  imagination  is  incapable  of 
producing  anything  absolutely  new :  it  can  only  vary  the  dis- 
position of  those  ideas  which  it  has  received  from  the  senses. 
Now,  the  imagination  is  the  most  extensive  province  of  pleas- 


ON   TASTE  571 

ure  and  pain,  as  it  is  the  region  of  our  fears  and  our  hopes, 
and  of  all  our  passions  that  are  connected  with  them;  and 
whatever  is  calculated  to  affect  the  imagination  with  these  com- 
manding ideas,  by  force  of  any  original  natural  impression, 
must  have  the  same  power,  pretty  equally,  over  all  men.  For, 
since  the  imagination  is  only  the  representation  of  the  senses, 
it  can  only  be  pleased  or  displeased  with  the  images,  from  the 
same  principle  on  which  the  senses  are  pleased  or  displeased 
with  the  realities;  and  consequently  there  must  be  just  as 
close  an  agreement  in  the  imaginations  as  in  the  senses  of 
men.  A  little  attention  will  convince  us  that  this  must  of  ne- 
cessity be  the  case. 

But,  in  the  imagination,  besides  the  pain  or  pleasure  arising 
from  the  properties  of  the  natural  object,  a  pleasure  is  per- 
ceived from  the  resemblance  which  the  imitation  has  to  the 
original :  the  imagination,  I  conceive,  can  have  no  pleasure 
but  what  results  from  one  or  other  of  these  causes.  And  these 
causes  operate  pretty  uniformly  upon  all  men,  because  they 
operate  by  principles  in  nature,  and  which  are  not  derived 
from  any  particular  habits  or  advantage.  Mr,  Locke  very 
justly  and  finely  observes  of  wit  that  it  is  chiefly  conversant 
in  tracing  resemblances:  he  remarks,  at  the  same  time,  that 
the  business  of  judgment  is  rather  in  finding  differences.  It 
may,  perhaps,  appear,  on  this  supposition,  that  there  is  no  ma- 
terial distinction  between  the  wit  and  the  judgment,  as  they 
both  seem  to  result  from  different  operations  of  the  same  fac- 
ulty of  comparing.  But,  in  reality,  whether  they  are  or  are 
not  dependent  on  the  same  power  of  the  mind,  they  differ  so 
very  materially  in  many  respects  that  a  perfect  union  of  wit 
and  judgment  is  one  of  the  rarest  things  in  the  world.  When 
two  distinct  objects  are  unlike  to  each  other,  it  is  only  what  we 
expect;  things  are  in  their  common  way;  and  therefore  they 
make  no  impression  on  the  imagination :  but  when  two  dis- 
tinct objects  have  a  resemblance,  we  are  struck,  we  attend  to 
them,  and  we  are  pleased.  The  mind  of  man  has  naturally  a 
far  greater  alacrity  and  satisfaction  in  tracing  resemblances 
than  in  searching  for  differences:  because,  by  making  resem- 
blances we  produce  new  images ;  we  unite,  we  create,  we  en- 
large our  stock:  but  in  making  distinctions  we  offer  no  food 
at  all  to  the  imagination;   the  task  itself  is  more  severe  and 


372  BURKE 

irksome,  and  what  pleasure  we  derive  from  it  is  something  of 
a  negative  and  indirect  nature,  A  piece  of  news  is  told  me  in 
the  morning;  this,  merely  as  a  piece  of  news,  as  a  fact  added 
to  my  stock,  gives  me  some  pleasure.  In  the  evening,  I  find 
there  was  nothing  in  it.  What  do  I  gain  by  this  but  the  dis- 
satisfaction to  find  that  I  had  been  imposed  upon?  Hence  it  is 
that  men  are  much  more  naturally  inclined  to  belief  than  to 
incredulity.  And  it  is  upon  this  principle  that  the  most 
ignorant  and  barbarous  nations  have  frequently  excelled  in 
similitude,  comparisons,  metaphors,  and  allegories,  who  have 
been  weak  and  backward  in  distinguishing  and  sorting  their 
ideas.  And  it  is  for  a  reason  of  this  kind  that  Homer  and  the 
Oriental  writers,  though  very  fond  of  similitudes,  and  though 
they  often  strike  out  such  as  are  truly  admirable,  they  seldom 
take  care  to  have  them  exact ;  that  is,  they  are  taken  with  the 
general  resemblance,  they  paint  it  strongly,  and  they  take  no 
notice  of  the  difference  which  may  be  found  between  the  things 
compared. 

Now,  as  the  pleasure  of  resemblance  is  that  which  princi- 
pally flatters  the  imagination,  all  men  are  nearly  equal  in  this 
point,  as  far  as  their  knowledge  of  the  things  represented  or 
compared  extends.  The  principle  of  this  knowledge  is  very 
much  accidental ;  as  it  depends  upon  experience  and  observa- 
tion, and  not  on  the  strength  or  weakness  of  any  natural  fac- 
ulty ;  and  it  is  from  this  diflference  in  knowledge  that  what 
we  commonly,  though  with  no  great  exactness,  call  a  differ- 
ence in  taste,  proceeds.  A  man  to  whom  sculpture  is  new 
sees  a  barber's  block,  or  some  ordinary  piece  of  statuary :  he 
is  immediately  struck  and  pleased,  because  he  sees  something 
like  a  human  figure ;  and,  entirely  taken  up  with  this  likeness, 
he  does  not  at  all  attend  to  its  defects.  No  person,  I  believe, 
at  the  first  time  of  seeing  a  piece  of  imitation,  ever  did.  Some 
time  after,  we  suppose  that  this  novice  lights  upon  a  more 
artificial  work  of  the  same  nature;  he  now  begins  to  look 
with  contempt  on  what  he  admired  at  first :  not  that  he  admired 
it  even  then  for  its  unlikeness  to  a  man ;  but  for  that  general, 
though  inaccurate,  resemblance  which  it  bore  to  the  human 
figure.  What  he  admired,  at  different  times,  in  these  so  dif- 
ferent figures,  is  strictly  the  same ;  and,  though  his  knowledge 
is  improved,  his  taste  is  not  altered.     Hitherto  his  mistake 


ON   TASTE  373 

was  from  a  want  of  knowledge  in  art,  and  this  arose  from  his 
inexperience;  but  he  may  be  still  deficient  from  a  want  of 
knowledge  in  nature.  For  it  is  possible  that  the  man  in  ques- 
tion may  stop  here,  and  that  the  masterpiece  of  a  great  hand 
may  please  him  no  more  than  the  middling  performance  of  a 
vulgar  artist ;  and  this  not  for  want  of  better  or  higher  relish, 
but  because  all  men  do  not  observe  with  sufficient  accuracy 
on  the  human  figure,  to  enable  them  to  judge  properly  of  an 
imitation  of  it.  And  that  the  critical  taste  does  not  depend  upon 
a  superior  principle  in  men,  but  upon  superior  knowledge, 
may  appear  from  several  instances.  The  story  of  the  ancient 
painter  and  the  shoemaker  is  very  well  known.  The  shoemaker 
set  the  painter  right,  with  regard  to  some  mistakes  he  had 
made  in  the  shoe  of  one  of  his  figures,  and  which  the  painter, 
who  had  not  made  such  accurate  observations  on  shoes,  and 
was  content  with  a  general  resemblance,  had  never  observed. 
But  this  was  no  impeachment  to  the  taste  of  the  painter:  it 
only  showed  some  want  of  knowledge  in  the  art  of  making 
shoes.  Let  us  imagine  that  an  anatomist  had  come  into  the 
painter's  working-room :  his  piece  is  in  general  well  done ;  the 
figure  in  question  in  a  good  attitude,  and  the  parts  well  ad- 
justed to  their  various  movements :  yet,  the  anatomist,  critical 
in  his  art,  may  observe  the  swell  of  some  muscle  not  quite  just 
in  the  peculiar  action  of  the  figure.  Here  the  anatomist  ob- 
serves what  the  painter  had  not  observed;  and  he  passes  by 
what  the  shoemaker  had  remarked.  But  a  want  of  the  last 
critical  knowledge  in  anatomy  no  more  reflected  on  the  natural 
good  taste  of  the  painter,  or  of  any  common  observer  of  his 
piece,  than  the  want  of  an  exact  knowledge  in  the  formation 
of  a  shoe.  A  fine  piece  of  a  decollated  head  of  St.  John  the 
Baptist  was  shown  to  a  Turkish  emperor:  he  praised  many 
things ;  but  he  observed  one  defect :  he  observed  that  the  skin 
did  not  shrink  from  the  wounded  part  of  the  neck.  The  sultan 
on  this  occasion,  though  his  observation  was  very  just,  dis- 
covered no  more  natural  taste  than  the  painter  who  executed 
this  piece,  or  than  a  thousand  European  connoisseurs,  who 
probably  never  would  have  made  the  same  observation.  His 
Turkish  majesty  had,  indeed,  been  well  acquainted  with  that 
terrible  spectacle,  which  the  others  could  only  have  represented 
in  their  imagination.    On  the  subject  of  their  dislike  there  is 


374  BURKE 

a  difference  between  all  these  people,  arising  from  the  different 
kinds  and  degrees  of  their  knowledge ;  but  there  is  something 
in  common  to  the  painter,  the  shoemaker,  the  anatomist,  and 
the  Turkish  emperor :  the  pleasure  arising  from  a  natural  ob- 
ject, so  far  as  each  perceives  it  justly  imitated;  the  satisfaction 
in  seeing  an  agreeable  figure;  the  sympathy  proceeding  from 
a  striking  and  affecting  incident.  So  far  as  taste  is  natural,  it 
is  nearly  common  to  all. 


ON    CONVERSATION 


BY 


WILLIAM  COWPE 


WILLIAM    COWPER 

1731 — 1800 

William  Cowper  was  born  in  1731.  The  death  of  his  mother  when 
he  was  only  six  years  old  deprived  him  of  the  care  which  was  needed 
for  the  well-being  of  a  delicate  and  sensitive  child;  his  recollections 
of  this  early  sorrow  are  commemorated  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  his  minor  poems.  He  was  sent  after  her  death  to  a  private  school 
at  Market  Street,  whence  he  was  removed  at  the  end  of  two  years 
because  of  an  affection  of  his  sight.  At  ten  years  of  age  he  was  sent 
to  Westminster,  where  he  continued  until  he  was  eighteen.  Though 
he  excelled  in  some  youthful  sports,  and  was  therefore  likely  to  have 
been  popular  with  his  companions,  he  appears  to  have  suffered  much 
both  at  Market  Street  and  at  Westminster  from  the  tyranny  of  his 
school-fellows,  and  ever  after  retained  the  strongest  aversion  to  any 
but  home  education.  On  leaving  Westminster  he  was  articled  for 
three  years  to  a  solicitor — his  fellow-pupil  in  the  office  being  the  future 
Lord  Thurloe.  In  1754  he  was  called  to  the  bar,  and  resided  in  the 
Temple  for  eleven  years.  During  those  years  Cowper  mixed  in  the 
literary  society  of  the  day,  and  had  considerable  success  both  as  a  wit 
and  as  the  author  of  various  fugitive  pieces.  Several  lucrative  offices 
were  obtained  for  him  by  the  interest  of  friends,  but  each  one  of  these 
in  succession  was  found  to  require  some  public  appearance,  for  which 
his  nervous  temperament  disqualified  him.  In  his  last  attempt  to  face 
an  ordeal  of  the  kind  he  broke  down,  became  insane,  and  was  placed 
in  confinement  for  eighteen  months.  He  now  withdrew  from  London, 
and  settled  at  Huntingdon,  where  he  became  the  friend  and  soon  the 
inmate  of  the  family  of  the  Unwins,  with  whom,  there  and  at  Olney, 
and  afterwards  at  Weston,  he  found  a  home  for  the  remainder  of  his 
days.  Cowper  suiTered  through  life  from  the  nervous  melancholy 
which  so  often  defeated  his  purposes  in  youth,  and  which  at  times 
amounted  to  insanity.     He  died  in  1800. 

Cowper  was  the  author  of  "  Table  Talk,"  "  Expostulation,"  "  The 
Task,"  and  other  poems,  besides  hymns  contributed  to  the  Olney  col- 
lection, and  translations  of  the  "  Iliad  "  and  "  Odyssey."  His  prose 
writings  consist  chiefly  of  letters  written  to  various  friends,  to  whom 
he  was  deeply  attached.  He  lived  in  extreme  retirement  in  the  bosom 
of  the  religious  family  with  whom,  as  has  been  already  said,  he  had 
made  his  home,  and  his  letters  touch  upon  such  subjects  as  naturally 
belong  to  a  quiet  and  contemplative  life;  they  abound  in  religious 
meditations,  in  descriptions  of  domestic  scenes,  and  in  disclosures  of 
his  own  feelings  and  states  of  mind,  besides  occasional  allusions  to 
his  own  peculiar  trials.  Political  reflections  occasionally  occur,  given 
with  the  modesty  of  a  secluded  observer. 

Cowper's  claim  to  rank  as  an  essayist  rests  on  his  contributions  to 
the  "  Connoisseur,"  a  weekly  miscellany  commenced  by  George  Col- 
man  and  Bonne!  Thornton  in  1754.  How  easily  he  might  have 
excelled  in  this  kind  of  writing  may  be  seen  from  his  essay  "  On 
Conversation." 


376 


ON    CONVERSATION 

Servata  semper  lege  et  ratione  loquendi. — Horace. 

Your  talk  to  decency  and  reason  suit, 
Nor  prate  like  fools  or  gabble  like  a  brute. 

IN  the  comedy  of  the  "  Frenchman  in  London,"  which  we 
were  told  was  acted  at  Paris  with  universal  applause  for 
several  nights  together,  there  is  a  character  of  a  rough 
Englishman,  who  is  represented  as  quite  unskilled  in  the  graces 
of  conversation ;  and  his  dialogue  consists  almost  entirely  of  a 
repetition  of  the  common  salutation  of  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 
Our  nation  has,  indeed,  been  generally  supposed  to  be  of  a 
sullen  and  uncommunicative  disposition;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  loquacious  French  have  been  allowed  to  possess  the 
art  of  conversing  beyond  all  other  people.  The  Englishman 
requires  to  be  wound  up  frequently,  and  stops  as  soon  as  he  is 
down;  but  the  Frenchman  runs  on  in  a  continual  alarum. 
Yet  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  as  the  English  consist  of 
very  different  humors,  their  manner  of  discourse  admits  of 
great  variety;  but  the  whole  French  nation  converse  alike; 
and  there  is  no  difference  in  address  between  a  marquis  and  a 
valet-de-charnhre.  We  may  frequently  see  a  couple  of  French 
barbers  accosting  each  other  in  the  street,  and  paying  their 
compliments  with  the  same  volubility  of  speech,  the  same 
grimace  and  action,  as  two  courtiers  in  the  Tuileries. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  lay  down  any  particular  rules  for  con- 
versation, but  rather  point  out  such  faults  in  discourse  and 
behavior  as  render  the  company  of  half  mankind  rather  tedious 
than  amusing.  It  is  in  vain,  indeed,  to  look  for  conversation 
where  we  might  expect  to  find  it  in  the  greatest  perfection, 
among  persons  of  fashion;  there  it  is  almost  annihilated  by 
universal  card-playing:  insomuch  that  I  have  heard  it  given 
as  a  reason  why  it  is  impossible  for  our  present  writers  to  suc- 
ceed in  the  dialogue  of  genteel  comedy,  that  our  people  of 

2^^  17— Vol.  57 


378  COWPER 

quality  scarce  ever  meet  but  to  game.  All  their  discourse  turns 
upon  the  odd  trick  and  the  four  honors;  and  it  is  no  less  a 
maxim  with  the  votaries  of  whist  than  with  those  of  Bacchus, 
that  talking  spoils  company. 

Everyone  endeavors  to  make  himself  as  agreeable  to  society 
as  he  can ;  but  it  often  happens  that  those  who  most  aim  at 
shining  in  conversation  overshoot  their  mark.  Though  a  man 
succeeds,  he  should  not  (as  is  frequently  the  case)  engross 
the  whole  talk  to  himself;  for  that  destroys  the  very  essence 
of  conversation,  which  is  talking  together.  We  should  try  to 
keep  up  conversation  like  a  ball  bandied  to  and  fro  from  one  to 
the  other,  rather  than  seize  it  all  to  ourselves,  and  drive  it 
before  us  like  a  football.  We  should  likewise  be  cautious  to 
adapt  the  matter  of  our  discourse  to  our  company,  and  not 
talk  Greek  before  ladies,  or  of  the  last  new  furbelow  to  a  meet- 
ing of  country  justices. 

But  nothing  throws  a  more  ridiculous  air  over  our  whole 
conversation  than  certain  peculiarities  easily  acquired,  but  very 
difficultly  conquered  and  discarded.  In  order  to  display  these 
absurdities  in  a  truer  light,  it  is  my  present  purpose  to  enu- 
merate such  of  them  as  are  most  commonly  to  be  met  with ; 
and  first  to  take  notice  of  those  buffoons  in  society,  the  Attitu- 
dinarians  and  Face-makers.  These  accompany  every  word 
with  a  peculiar  grimace  or  gesture ;  they  assent  with  a  shrug, 
and  contradict  with  a  twisting  of  the  neck ;  are  angry  by  a 
wry  mouth,  and  pleased  in  a  caper  or  minuet  step.  They  may 
be  considered  as  speaking  harlequins;  and  their  rules  of  elo- 
quence are  taken  from  the  posture-master.  These  should  be 
condemned  to  converse  only  in  dumb  show  with  their  own 
persons  in  the  looking-glass;  as  well  as  the  Smirkers  and 
Smilers,  who  so  prettily  set  oflf  their  faces,  together  with  their 
words,  by  a  je-ne-sais-quoi  between  a  grin  and  a  dimple.  With 
these  we  may  likewise  rank  the  aflfected  tribe  of  mimics,  who 
are  constantly  taking  ofif  the  peculiar  tone  of  voice  or  gesture 
of  their  acquaintance,  though  they  are  such  wretched  imita- 
tors, that  (like  bad  painters)  they  are  frequently  forced  to  write 
the  name  under  the  picture  before  we  can  discover  any  Hkeness. 

Next  to  these  whose  elocution  is  absorbed  in  action,  and  who 
converse  chiefly  with  their  arms  and  legs,  we  may  consider  the 
Professed  Speakers.  And  first,  the  Emphatical,  who  squeeze, 
and  press,  and  ram  down  every  s^fllable  with  excessive  vehe- 


ON   CONVERSATION  379 

mence  and  energy.  These  orators  are  remarkable  for  their  dis- 
tinct elocution  and  force  of  expression:  they  dwell  on  the 
important  particles  of  and  the,  and  the  significant  conjunc- 
tion and,  which  they  seem  to  hawk  up,  with  much  difficulty,  out 
of  their  own  throats,  and  to  cram  them,  with  no  less  pain,  into 
the  ears  of  their  auditors.  These  should  be  suffered  only  to 
syringe  (as  it  were)  the  ears  of  a  deaf  man,  through  a  hearing- 
trumpet  ;  though  I  must  confess  that  I  am  equally  offended  with 
the  Whisperers  or  Low-speakers,  who  seem  to  fancy  all  their 
acquaintance  deaf,  and  come  up  so  close  to  you  that  they  may 
be  said  to  measure  noses  with  you,  and  frequently  overcome 
you  with  the  full  exhalations  of  a  foul  breath.  I  would  have 
these  oracular  gentry  obliged  to  speak  at  a  distance  through  a 
speaking-trumpet,  or  apply  their  lips  to  the  walls  of  a  whisper- 
ing-gallery. The  Wits,  who  will  not  condescend  to  utter  any- 
thing but  a  bon-mot,  and  the  Whistlers  or  Tune-hummers,  who 
never  articulate  at  all,  may  be  joined  very  agreeably  together  in 
concert;  and  to  these  tinkling  cymbals  I  would  also  add  the 
sounding  brass,  the  Bawler,  who  inquires  after  your  health  with 
the  bellowing  of  a  town-crier. 

The  Tattlers,  whose  pliable  pipes  are  admirably  adapted  to 
the  "  soft  parts  of  conversation,"  and  sweetly  "  prattling  out  of 
fashion,"  make  very  pretty  music  from  a  beautiful  face  and  a 
female  tongue ;  but  from  a  rough  manly  voice  and  coarse  feat- 
ures mere  nonsense  is  as  harsh  and  dissonant  as  a  jig  from  a 
hurdy-gurdy.  The  Swearers  I  have  spoken  of  in  a  former 
paper ;  but  the  Half-Swearers,  who  split,  and  mince,  and  fritter 
their  oaths  into  "  gad's  bud,"  "  od's  fish,"  and  "  demme,"  the 
Gothic  Humbuggers,  and  those  who  nickname  God's  creatures, 
and  call  a  man  a  cabbage,  a  crab,  a  queer  cub,  an  odd  fish,  and 
an  unaccountable  muskin,  should  never  come  into  company 
without  an  interpreter.  But  I  will  not  tire  my  reader's  patience 
by  pointing  out  all  the  pests  of  conversation ;  nor  dwell  par- 
ticularly on  the  Sensibles,  who  pronounce  dogmatically  on  the 
most  trivial  points,  and  speak  in  sentences ;  the  Wonderers, 
who  are  always  wondering  what  o'clock  it  is,  or  wondering 
whether  it  will  rain  or  no,  or  wondering  when  the  moon 
changes  ;  the  Phraseologists,  who  explain  a  thing  by  all  t'^at,  or 
enter  into  particulars,  with  this  and  that  and  t'other ;  and  lastly, 
the  Silent  Men,  who  seem  afraid  of  opening  their  mouths  lest 
they  should  catch  cold,  and  literallv  observe  the  precept  of  the 


380  COWPER 

gospel,  by  letting  their  conversation  be  only  yea  yea,  and  nay 
nay. 

The  rational  intercourse  kept  up  by  conyersation  is  one  of 
our  principal  distinctions  from  brutes.  We  should  therefore 
endeavor  to  turn  this  peculiar  talent  to  our  advantage,  and  con- 
sider the  organs  of  speech  as  the  instruments  of  understanding: 
we  should  be  very  careful  not  to  use  them  as  the  weapons  of 
vice,  or  tools  of  folly,  and  do  our  utmost  to  unlearn  any  trivial 
or  ridiculous  habits,  which  tend  to  lessen  the  value  of  such  an 
inestimable  prerogative.  It  is,  indeed,  imagined  by  some  phi- 
losophers, that  even  birds  and  beasts  (though  without  the  power 
of  articulation)  perfectly  understand  one  another  by  the  sounds 
they  utter ;  and  that  dogs,  cats,  etc.,  have  each  a  particular  lan- 
guage to  themselves,  like  different  nations.  Thus  it  may  be 
supposed  that  the  nightingales  of  Italy  have  as  fine  an  ear  for 
their  own  native  woodnotes  as  any  signor  or  signora  for  an 
Italian  air ;  that  the  boars  of  Westphalia  gruntle  as  expres- 
sively through  the  nose  as  the  inhabitants  in  High  German ; 
and  that  the  frogs  in  the  dykes  of  Holland  croak  as  intelligibly 
as  the  natives  jabber  their  Low  Dutch.  However  this  may  be, 
we  may  consider  those  whose  tongues  hardly  seem  to  be  under 
the  influence  of  reason,  and  do  not  keep  up  the  proper  conver- 
sation of  human  creatures,  as  imitating  the  language  of  differ- 
ent animals.  Thus,  for  instance,  the  affinity  between  Chatterers 
and  Monkeys,  and  Praters  and  Parrots,  is  too  obvious  not  to 
occur  at  once ;  Grunters  and  Growlers  may  be  justly  compared 
to  Hogs ;  Snarlers  are  Curs  that  continually  show  their  teeth, 
but  never  bite ;  and  the  Spitfire  passionate  are  a  sort  of  wild 
cats  that  will  not  bear  stroking,  but  will  purr  when  they  are 
pleased.  Complainers  are  Screech-Owls  ;  and  Story-tellers,  al- 
ways repeating  the  same  dull  note,  are  Cuckoos.  Poets  that 
prick  up  their  ears  at  their  own  hideous  braying  are  no  better 
than  Asses.  Critics  in  general  are  venomous  Serpents  that  de- 
light in  hissing,  and  some  of  them  who  have  got  by  heart  a  few 
technical  terms  without  knowing  their  meaning  are  no  other 
than  Magpies.  I  myself,  who  have  crowed  to  the  whole  town 
for  near  three  years  past,  may  perhaps  put  my  readers  in  mind 
of  a  Barnyard  Cock ;  but  as  I  must  acquaint  them  that  they 
will  hear  the  last  of  me  on  this  day  fortnight,  I  hope  they  will 
then  consider  me  as  a  Swan,  who  is  supposed  to  sing  sweetly  at 
his  dying  moments. 


THE    OCEAN    OF    INIC 

BY 

GEORGE    COLMAN 

AND 

BONNEL    THORNTON 


GEORGE    COLMAN 
1733— 1794 

George  Colman,  a  dramatic  writer  and  accomplished  scholar,  was 
born  at  Florence,  in  1733,  where  his  father  at  that  time  resided  as  the 
British  envoy.  After  receiving  his  education  at  Westminster  School 
and  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  law  as 
a  profession;  but  his  writings  in  "The  Connoisseur"  having  met 
with  success,  gave  him  a  bias  towards  polite  literature,  and  he  accord- 
ingly abandoned  the  graver  pursuits  of  legal  science.  His  first  dra- 
matic attempt  was  "  Polly  Honeycombe,"  which  was  performed  at 
Drury  Lane  with  great,  though  only  temporary,  success.  In  the  fol- 
lowing year,  1761,  he  produced  his  comedy  of  the  "  Jealous  Wife," 
which  at  once  became  popular  and  has  ever  since  kept  the  stage. 
"  The  Clandestine  Marriage,"  ''  The  English  Merchant,"  etc.,  added 
to  his  fame;  and  he  wrote  a  number  of  other  pieces,  which,  though 
inferior  to  these,  were  by  no  means  deficient  in  merit.  Lord  Bath 
and  General  Pulteney,  at  their  deaths,  left  him  considerable  legacies, 
which  enabled  him  to  purchase  a  share  in  Covent  Garden  Theatre. 
Disputes  arising  between  himself  and  the  other  proprietors,  he  very 
soon  disposed  of  this  property,  and  purchased  the  little  theatre  in  the 
Haymarket,  which  he  conducted  until  an  attack  of  paralysis  reduced 
him  to  a  state  of  mental  imbecility.  In  addition  to  his  writings  men- 
tioned above,  he  translated  the  comedies  of  Terence,  and  Horace's 
"  De  Arte  Poetica."     He  died  in  1794. 


BONNEL  THORNTON 
1724— 1768 

Bonnel  Thornton,  a  humorous  writer  and  poet,  was  born  in  Lon- 
don, in  1724,  and  was  educated  at  Westminster  School  and  Christ 
Church,  Oxford.  He  made  literature  his  profession,  and  was  on  terms 
of  intimacy  with  many  of  the  wits  of  the  age,  united  with  the  elder 
Colman  in  "  The  Connoisseur,"  and  was  a  fertile  contributor  to  the 
periodicals  of  the  day.  He  projected  an  exhibition  of  sign  paintings; 
and  brought  out  a  burlesque  "  Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,"  which  af- 
forded much  amusement.  In  1766  he  published  a  translation  of 
Plautus;  and  the  year  following  a  poem,  entitled  "The  Battle  of  the 
Wigs,"  in  ridicule  of  the  dispute  between  the  licentiates  and  fellows 
of  the  College  of  Physicians.     He  died  in  1768. 

"  The  Ocean  of  Ink  "  is  taken  from  "  The  Connoisseur."  Colman 
and  Thornton,  according  to  their  own  statement,  collaborated  in  every 
essay,  and  wrote  in  such  unison  that  almost  every  single  paper  is  the 
joint  product  of  both.  "  The  Connoisseur "  lasted  from  January, 
1754,  to  September,  1756,  and  was  succeeded  by  Johnson's  "  Idler." 


382 


THE  OCEAN  OF  INK 

Suave  viari  magno,  turbantibus  cequora  ventis, 

E  terra  magnum  alterius  spec  tare  laborem. — Lucretius, 

When  raging  winds  the  ruffled  deep  deform, 
We  look  at  distance,  and  enjoy  the  storm ; 
Toss'd  on  the  waves  with  pleasure  others  see, 
Nor  heed  their  dangers,  while  ourselves  are  free. 

WE  writers  of  essays,  or  (as  they  are  termed)  periodical 
papers,  justly  claim  to  ourselves  a  place  among  the 
modern  improvers  of  literature.  Neither  Bentley 
nor  Burman,^  nor  any  other  equally  sagacious  commentator, 
has  been  able  to  discover  the  least  traces  of  any  similar  pro- 
ductions among  the  ancients :  except  we  can  suppose  that  the 
history  of  Thucydides  was  retailed  weekly  in  sixpenny  num- 
bers ;  that  Seneca  dealt  out  his  morality  every  Saturday,  or 
that  Tully  wrote  speeches  and  philosophical  disquisitions,  whilst 
iVirgil  and  Horace  clubbed  together  to  furnish  the  poetry  for  a 
Roman  magazine. 

There  is  a  word,  indeed,  by  which  we  are  fond  of  distin- 
guishing our  works,  and  for  which  we  must  confess  ourselves 
indebted  to  the  Latin.  Myself,  and  every  petty  journalist, 
affect  to  dignify  our  hasty  performances  by  styling  them  "  lucu- 
brations " ;  by  which  we  mean,  if  we  mean  anything,  that  as 
the  day  is  too  short  for  our  labors,  we  are  obliged  to  call  in  the 
assistance  of  the  night :  not  to  mention  the  modest  insinuation 
that  our  compositions  are  so  correct,  that  (like  the  orations  of 
Demosthenes)  they  may  be  said  to  smell  of  the  lamp.  We 
would  be  understood  to  follow  the  directions  of  the  Roman  sat- 
irist, "  to  grow  pale  by  the  midnight  candle  " ;  though,  perhaps, 
as  our  own  satirist  ^  expresses  it,  we  may  be  thought 

"  Sleepless  ourselves,  to  give  our  readers  sleep." 

*  Peter  Burnian  (d.  1741),  an  eminent  *  Pope,  "  Dunciad,"  i.  94. 

classical  commentator,  and  professor  at 
Leyden. 


384  COLMAN— THORNTON 

But  as  a  relief  from  the  fatigue  of  so  many  restless  hours, 
we  have  frequently  gone  to  sleep  for  the  benefit  of  the  public: 
and  surely  we,  whose  labors  are  confined  to  a  sheet  and  a  half, 
may  be  indulged  in  taking  a  nap  now  and  then,  as  well  as 
those  engaged  in  longer  works;  who  (according  to  Horace) 
are  to  be  excused  if  a  little  drowsiness  sometimes  creeps  in 
upon  them. 

After  this  preface,  the  reader  will  not  be  surprised,  if  I  take 
the  liberty  to  relate  a  dream  of  my  own.  It  is  usual  on  these 
occasions  to  be  lulled  to  sleep  by  some  book :  and  most  of  my 
brethren  pay  that  compliment  to  Virgil  or  Shakespeare:  but 
as  I  could  never  discover  any  opiate  qualities  in  those  authors, 
I  chose  rather  to  doze  over  some  modern  performance.  I  must 
beg  to  be  excused  from  mentioning  particulars,  as  I  would  not 
provoke  the  resentment  of  my  contemporaries:  nobody  will 
imagine  that  I  dipped  into  any  of  our  modern  novels,  or  took 
up  any  of  our  late  tragedies.  Let  it  suffice  that  I  presently 
fell  fast  asleep. 

I  found  myself  transported  in  an  instant  to  the  shore  of 
an  immense  sea,  covered  with  innumerable  vessels ;  and  though 
many  of  them  suddenly  disappeared  every  minute,  I  saw  others 
continually  launching  forth,  and  pursuing  the  same  course. 
The  seers  of  visions  and  dreamers  of  dreams  have  their  or- 
gans of  sight  so  considerably  improved,  that  they  can  take 
in  any  object,  however  distant  or  minute.  It  is  not,  therefore, 
to  be  wondered  at  that  I  could  discern  everything  distinctly, 
though  the  waters  before  me  were  of  the  deepest  black. 

While  I  stood  contemplating  this  amazing  scene,  one  of  those 
good-natured  Genii,  who  never  fail  making  their  appearance 
to  extricate  dreamers  from  their  difficulties,  rose  from  the 
sable  stream  and  planted  himself  at  my  elbow.  His  com- 
plexion was  of  the  darkest  hue,  not  unlike  that  of  the  demons 
of  a  printing-house;  his  jetty  beard  shone  like  the  bristles  of 
a  blacking-brush ;  on  his  head  he  wore  a  turban  of  imperial 
paper ;  and  there  hung  a  calfskin  on  his  reverend  limbs,  which 
was  gilt  on  the  back,  and  faced  with  robings  of  morocco,  let- 
tered (like  a  rubric-post)  with  the  names  of  the  most  eminent 
authors.  In  his  left  hand  he  bore  a  printed  scroll,  which  from 
the  marginal  corrections  I  imagined  to  be  a  proof-sheet ;  and 
in  his  right  hand  he  waved  the  quill  of  a  goose. 


THE   OCEAN   OF   INK  385 

He  immediately  accosted  me.  "  Town,"  '  said  he,  »'  I  am 
the  Genius  who  is  destined  to  conduct  you  through  the^e  tur- 
bulent waves.  The  sea  that  you  now  behold  is  the  Ocean  of 
Ink.  Those  towers,  at  a  great  distance,  whose  bases  are 
founded  upon  rocks,  and  whose  tops  seem  lost  in  the  clouds, 
are  situated  in  the  Isle  of  Fame.  Contiguous  to  these,  you 
may  discern  by  the  glittering  of  its  golden  sands,  is  the  Coast 
of  Gain,  which  leads  to  a  fertile  and  rich  country.  All  the 
vessels  which  are  yonder  sailing  with  a  fair  wind  on  the  main 
sea  are  making  towards  one  or  other  of  these ;  but  you  will  ob- 
serve that  on  the  first  setting  out  they  were  irresistibly  drawn 
into  the  eddies  of  Criticism,  where  they  were  obliged  to  en- 
counter the  most  dreadful  tempests  and  hurricanes.  In  these 
dangerous  straits  you  see  with  what  violence  every  bark  is 
tossed  up  and  down ;  some  go  to  the  bottom  at  once ;  others, 
after  a  faint  struggle,  are  beat  to  pieces;  many  are  much 
damaged;  while  a  few,  by  sound  planks  and  tight  rigging, 
are  enabled  to  weather  the  storm." 

At  this  sight  I  started  back  with  horror;  and  the  remem- 
brance still  dwells  so  strong  upon  my  fancy,  that  I  even  now 
imagine  the  torrent  of  criticism  bursting  in  upon  me,  and  ready 
to  overwhelm  me  in  an  instant. 

"  Cast  a  look,"  resumed  my  instructor,  "  on  that  vast  lake 
divided  into  two  parts,  which  lead  to  yonder  magnificent 
structures,  erected  by  the  Tragic  and  Comic  Muse.  There  you 
may  observe  many  trying  to  force  a  passage  without  chart  or 
compass.  Some  have  been  overset  by  crowding  too  much  sail, 
and  others  have  foundered  by  carrying  too  much  ballast.  An 
Arcadian  vessel  *  (the  master  an  Irishman)  was,  through  con- 
trary squalls,  scarce  able  to  live  nine  days;  but  you  see  that 
light  Italian  gondola,  Gli  Amanti  Gelosi,  skims  along  pleas- 
antly before  the  wind,  and  outstrips  the  painted  frigates  of 
our  country,  Didone  and  Artaserse.  Observe  that  triumphant 
squadron,  to  whose  flag  all  the  others  pay  homage.  Most  of 
them  are  ships  of  the  first-rate,  and  were  fitted  out  many  years 
ago.  Though  somewhat  irregular  in  their  make,  and  but  lit- 
tle conformable  to  the  exact  rules  of  art,  they  will  ever  continue 

•  The    pseudonym    used   by    the  joint  dola  refers  to  an  Italian  burlesque,  and 

editors,  Colraan  and  Thornton.  the  frigates  to  two  Italian  operas  (Har- 

«  The  vessel  is  a  tragedy,  "  Philoclea,"  risen), 
based  on  Sidney's  "Arcadia";  the  gon- 


386  COLMAN— THORNTON 

the  pride  and  glory  of  these  seas;    for,  as  it  is  remarked  by 
the  present  Laureate,'^  in  his  prologue  to  Papal  Tyranny, 

"  Shakespeare,  whose  art  no  playwright  can  excel, 
Has  launch'd  us  fleets  of  plays,  and  built  them  well." 

The  Genius  then  bade  me  turn  my  eye  where  the  water 
seemed  to  foam  with  perpetual  agitation.  "  That,"  said  he,  "is 
the  strong  current  of  Politics,  often  fatal  to  those  who  venture 
on  it."  I  could  not  but  take  notice  of  a  poor  wretch  on  the 
opposite  shore,  fastened  by  the  ears  to  a  terrible  machine.  This, 
the  Genius  informed  me,  was  the  memorable  Defoe,  set  up  there 
as  a  landmark,  to  prevent  future  mariners  from  splitting  on  the 
same  rock.  To  this  turbulent  prospect  succeeded  objects  of 
a  more  placid  nature.  In  a  little  creek,  winding  through  flow- 
ery meads  and  shady  groves,  I  descried  several  gilded  yachts 
and  pleasure  boats,  all  of  them  keeping  due  time  with  their 
silver  oars,  and  gliding  along  the  smooth,  even,  calm,  regularly 
flowing  rivulets  of  Rhyme.  Shepherds  and  shepherdesses 
played  on  the  banks;  the  sails  were  gently  swelled  with  the 
soft  breezes  of  amorous  sighs ;  and  little  Loves  sported  in  the 
silken  cordage. 

My  attention  was  now  called  ofif  from  these  pacific  scenes 
to  an  obstinate  engagement  between  several  ships,  distinguished 
from  all  others  by  bearing  the  Holy  Cross  for  their  colons. 
These,  the  Genius  told  me,  were  employed  in  the  Holy  War  of 
Religious  Controversy ;  and  he  pointed  out  to  me  a  few  corsairs 
in  the  service  of  the  infidels,  sometimes  aiding  one  party,  some- 
times siding  with  the  other,  as  might  best  contribute  to  the 
general  confusion.  I  observed  in  different  parts  of  the  ocean 
several  galleys,  which  were  rowed  by  slaves.  "  Those,"  said 
the  Genius,  "  are  fitted  out  by  very  oppressive  owners,  and  are 
all  of  them  bound  to  the  Coast  of  Gain.  The  miserable  wretches 
whom  you  see  chained  to  the  oars  are  obliged  to  tug  without 
the  least  respite ;  and  though  the  voyage  should  turn  out  suc- 
cessful, they  have  little  or  no  share  in  the  profits.  Some  few 
you  may  observe  who  rather  choose  to  make  a  venture  on  their 
own  bottoms.  These  work  as  hard  as  the  galley-slaves,  and 
are  frequently  cast  away ;  but  though  they  are  never  so  often 

»  Colley  Gibber. 


THE   OCEAN   OF   INK  387 

wrecked,   necessity  still   constrains   them   to  put  out   to   sea 
again — 

"  Reficit  rates 
Quassas,  indocilis  pauperiem  pati." — Horace. 

Still  must  the  wretch  his  shatter'd  bark  refit, 
For  who  to  starve  can  patiently  submit? 

It  were  needless  to  enumerate  many  other  particulars  that 
engaged  my  notice.  Among  the  rest  was  a  large  fleet  of  An- 
notators,  Dutch-built,  which  sailed  very  heavy,  were  often 
aground,  and  continually  ran  foul  of  each  other.  The  whole 
ocean,  I  also  found,  was  infested  by  pirates,  who  ransacked 
every  rich  vessel  that  came  in  their  way.  Most  of  these  were 
endeavoring  to  make  the  Coast  of  Gain,  by  hanging  out  false 
colors,  or  by  forging  their  passports,  and  pretending  to  be 
freighted  out  by  the  most  reputable  traders. 

My  eyes  were  at  last  fixed,  I  know  not  how,  on  a  spacious 
channel  running  through  the  midst  of  a  great  city.  I  felt 
such  a  secret  impulse  at  this  sight  that  I  could  not  help  in- 
quiring particularly  about  it.  "  The  discovery  of  that  pas- 
sage," said  the  Genius,  "  was  first  made  by  one  Bickerstaff,  in 
the  good  ship  called  '  The  Tatler,'  and  who  afterwards  em- 
barked in  the  *  Spectator '  and  '  Guardian.'  These  have  been 
followed  since  by  a  number  of  little  sloops,  skiffs,  hoys,  and 
cock-boats,  which  have  been  most  of  them  wrecked  in  the 
attempt.  Thither  also  must  your  course  be  directed." — At 
this  instant  the  Genius  suddenly  snatched  me  up  in  his  arms, 
and  plunged  me  headlong  into  the  inky  flood.  While  I  lay 
gasping  and  struggling  beneath  the  waves,  methought  I  heard 
a  familiar  voice  calling  me  by  name,  which  awaking  me,  I  with 
pleasure  recollected  the  features  of  the  Genius  in  those  of  my 
publisher,  who  was  standing  by  my  bedside,  and  had  called 
upon  me  for  copy. 


EXTRAORDINARY     ACC  0*U  NT     OF 

ROBERT    BURNS,    THE    AYRSHIRE 

PLOUGHMAN 


BY 


HENRY    MACKENZIE 


HENRY    MACKENZIE 
1745— 183 1 

Henry  Mackenzie  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  in  August,  1745.  His 
father,  Dr.  Joshua  Mackenzie,  was  a  physician  in  extensive  practice. 
He  was  educated  at  the  High  School,  and  afterwards  studied  law. 
The  department  of  law  chosen  by  Mackenzie  was  the  business  of  the 
Exchequer  Court,  to  improve  himself  in  which  he  went  to  Lordon, 
in  1765,  to  study  the  English  Exchequer  practice.  His  earliest  and 
most  successful  novel,  "  The  Man  of  Feeling,"  was  begun  in  London 
about  this  time,  and  afterwards  published  anonymously  in  1771.  His 
professional  life  in  Edinburgh  allowed  him  sufficient  leisure  to  cul- 
tivate literature.  Besides  his  other  works  he  was  the  editor  of  two 
periodicals,  the  "  Mirror  "  and  the  "  Lounger."  The  "  Mirror  "  con- 
tinued to  appear  for  seventeen  months,  from  January,  1779;  and  the 
"  Lounger,"  which  was  commenced  in  February,  1785,  ceased  publi- 
cation about  two  years  afterwards.  One  of  the  most  notable  of  Mac- 
kenzie's contributions  to  these  two  periodicals  is  the  kindly  and  well- 
timed  criticism  on  Burns's  works.  He  wrote  some  dramatic  pieces, 
which  were  brought  out  at  Edinburgh  with  but  indififerent  success. 
Mackenzie  supported  the  government  of  Mr.  Pitt  with  some  pamph- 
lets written  with  great  acuteness  and  discrimination.  In  real  life  the 
novelist  was  shrewd  and  practical:  he  had  early  exhausted  his  vein 
of  romance,  and  was  an  active  man  of  business.  In  1804  the  govern- 
ment appointed  him  to  the  office  of  comptroller  of  taxes  for  Scotland, 
which  entailed  upon  him  considerable  labor  and  drudgery,  but  was 
highly  lucrative.  In  this  situation,  with  a  numerous  family  (he  mar- 
ried Miss  Penuel  Grant — daughter  of  Sir  Ludovic  Grant,  of  Grant), 
enjoying  the  society  of  his  friends  and  his  favorite  sports  of  the 
field,  writing  occasionally  on  subjects  of  taste  and  literature — for,  he 
said,  "  the  old  stump  would  still  occasionally  send  forth  a  few  green 
shoots  "—the  author  of  "  The  Man  of  Feeling  "  lived  to  the  advanced 
age  of  eighty-six. 


390 


EXTRAORDINARY   ACCOUNT  OF  ROBERT 
BURNS,  THE  AYRSHIRE   PLOUGHMAN 

TO  the  feeling  and  the  susceptible  there  is  something  won- 
derfully pleasing  in  the  contemplation  of  genius,  of 
that  super-eminent  reach  of  mind  by  which  some  men 
are  distinguished/  In  the  view  of  highly  superior  talents,  as 
in  that  of  great  and  stupendous  natural  objects,  there  is  a  sub- 
limity which  fills  the  soul  with  wonder  and  delight,  which 
expands  it,  as  it  were,  beyond  its  usual  bounds,  and  which, 
investing  our  nature  with  extraordinary  powers  and  extraordi- 
nary honors,  interests  our  curiosity,  and  flatters  our  pride. 

This  divinity  of  genius,  however,  which  admiration  is  fond  to 
worship,  is  best  arrayed  in  the  darkness  of  distant  and  remote 
periods,  and  is  not  easily  acknowledged  in  the  present  times, 
or  in  places  with  which  we  are  perfectly  acquainted.  Exclusive 
of  all  the  deductions  which  envy  or  jealousy  may  sometimes  be 
supposed  to  make,  there  is  a  familiarity  in  the  near  approach 
of  persons  around  us,  not  very  consistent  with  the  lofty  ideas 
which  we  wish  to  form  of  him,  who  has  led  captive  our  imagina- 
tion in  the  triumph  of  his  fancy,  overpowered  our  feelings  with 
the  tide  of  passion,  or  enlightened  our  reason  with  the  investi- 
gation of  hidden  truths.  It  may  be  true,  that  "  in  the  olden 
time  "  genius  had  some  advantages  which  tended  to  its  vigor 
and  its  growth ;  but  it  is  not  unlikely,  that,  even  in  these  de- 
generate days,  it  rises  much  oftener  than  it  is  observed;   that 

^  The  story  of  this  notice,  which  entitled  the  '  Lounger,'  published  in 
helped  to  introduce,  and  finally  settle,  Edinburgh  by  Mr.  Creech.  Mr.  Mac- 
Burns'  fame  as  a  poet  in  public  estima-  kenzie  read  the  poems  with  the  usual 
tion,  is  thus  told  by  Robert  Chambers  admiration,  and  lost  no  time  in  writing 
in  his  "  Life  and  Works  of  Burns  "  :  upon  them  a  generous  critique,  which 
"  Professor  Stewart,  on  leaving  the  appeared  in  the  '  Lounger  '  for  the  pth 
banks  of  the  Ayr  at  the  beginning  of  of  December  [1786].  By  this  alone  the 
November  to  commence  his  winter  ses-  fame  of  Burns  was  perfected  in  Scot- 
sion  at  the  university,  carried  with  him  land;  for,  by  the  pronouncement  of  the 
a  copy  of  the  Kilmarnock  volume,  greatest  tribunal  in  the  country,  all 
which  he  brought  under  the  notice  of  lesser  judges  were  set  free  to  give  theif 
Mr.  Henry  Mackenzie,  the  well-known  judgment  in  the  direction  which  their 
author  of  the  '  Man  of  Feeling,'  and  feelings  had  already  dictated, 
who  was  now   conducting  a  periodical 


392  MACKENZIE 

in  "  the  ignorant  present  time,"  our  posterity  may  find  names 
which  they  will  dignify,  though  we  neglected,  and  pay  to  their 
memory  those  honors  which  their  contemporaries  had  denied 
them. 

There  is,  however,  a  natural,  and  indeed  a  fortunate,  vanity  in 
trying  to  redress  this  wrong  which  genius  is  exposed  to  suffer. 
In  the  discovery  of  talents  generally  unknown,  men  are  apt  to 
indulge  the  same  fond  partiality  as  in  all  other  discoveries  which 
themselves  have  made;  and  hence  we  have  had  repeated  in- 
stances of  painters  and  of  poets,  who  have  been  drawn  from 
obscure  situations,  and  held  forth  to  public  notice  and  applause 
by  the  extravagant  encomiums  of  their  introductors,  yet  in  a 
short  time  have  sunk  again  to  their  former  obscurity ;  whose 
merit,  though  perhaps  somewhat  neglected,  did  not  appear  to 
have  been  much  undervalued  by  the  world,  and  could  not  sup- 
port, by  its  own  intrinsic  excellence,  that  superior  place  which 
the  enthusiasm  of  its  patrons  would  have  assigned  it. 

I  know  not  if  I  shall  be  accused  of  such  enthusiasm  and  par- 
tiality, when  I  introduce  to  the  notice  of  my  readers  a  poet  of 
our  own  country,  with  whose  writings  I  have  lately  become 
acquainted;  but  if  I  am  not  greatly  deceived,  I  think  I  may 
safely  pronounce  him  a  genius  of  no  ordinary  rank.  The  person 
to  whom  I  allude  is  Robert  Burns,  an  Ayrshire  ploughman, 
whose  poems  were  some  time  ago  published  in  a  county  town 
in  the  west  of  Scotland,  with  no  other  ambition,  it  would  seem, 
than  to  circulate  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  county  where  he 
was  born,  to  obtain  a  little  fame  from  those  who  had  heard  of 
his  talents.  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  thought  to  assume  too  much,  if 
I  endeavor  to  place  him  in  a  higher  point  of  view,  to  call  for  a 
verdict  of  his  country  on  the  merit  of  his  works,  and  to  claim 
for  him  those  honors  which  their  excellence  appears  to  deserve. 

In  mentioning  the  circumstances  of  his  humble  station,  I 
mean  not  to  rest  his  pretensions  solely  on  that  title,  or  to  urge 
the  merits  of  his  poetry  when  considered  in  relation  to  the  low- 
ness  of  his  birth,  and  the  little  opportunity  of  improvement 
which  his  education  could  afford.  These  particulars,  indeed, 
might  excite  our  wonder  at  his  productions ;  but  his  poetry,  con- 
sidered abstractedly,  and  with  the  apologies  arising  from  his 
situation,  seems  to  me  fully  entitled  to  command  our  feelings, 
and  to  obtain  our  applause.    One  bar,  indeed,  his  birth  and  edu- 


EXTRAORDINARY   ACCOUNT   OF   ROBERT  BURNS    393 

cation  have  opposed  to  his  fame — the  language  in  which  most 
of  his  poems  are  written.  Even  in  Scotland,  the  provincial  dia- 
lect which  Ramsay  and  he  have  used  is  now  read  with  a  diffi- 
culty which  greatly  damps  the  pleasure  of  the  reader :  in  Eng- 
land it  cannot  be  read  at  all,  without  such  a  constant  reference 
to  a  glossary,  as  nearly  to  destroy  that  pleasure. 

Some  of  his  productions,  however,  especially  those  of  the 
grave  style,  are  almost  English.  From  one  of  those  I  shall  first 
present  my  readers  with  an  extract,  in  which  I  think  they  will 
discover  a  high  tone  of  feeling,  a  power  and  energy  of  expres- 
sion, particularly  and  strongly  characteristic  of  the  mind  and  the 
voice  of  a  poet.  It  is  from  his  poem  entitled  "  The  Vision,"  in 
which  the  genius  of  his  native  county,  Ayrshire,  is  thus  sup- 
posed to  address  him : 

"  With  future  hope,  I  oft  would  gaze, 
Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 
Thy  rudely  carolled,  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 
Fired  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 

**  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore. 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar; 
Or,  when  the  North  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky, 
I  saw  grim  Nature's  visage  hoar 

Strike  thy  young  eye. 

*'  Or  when  the  deep-green  mantled  earth, 
Warm-cherished  every  floweret's  birth, 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  every  grove, 
I  saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

"When  ripened  fields  and  azure  skies 
Called  forth  the  reapers'  rustling  noise, 
I  saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk, 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

"When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing  strong, 
iKeen-shivering,  shot  thy  nerves  along, 


394  MACKENZIE 

Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

The  adored  name, 

I  taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  soothe  thy  flame* 

*'  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play, 
Wild,  send  thee   Pleasure's  devious  way. 
Misled  by  Fancy's  meteor-ray. 

By  Passion  driven; 
But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  heaven." 

Of  Strains  like  the  above,  solemn  and  sublime,  with  that  rapt 
and  inspired  melancholy  in  which  the  poet  lifts  his  eye  "  above 
this  visible  diurnal  sphere,"  the  poems  entitled  "  Despondency," 
"  The  Lament,"  "  Winter:  a  Dirge,"  and  the  "  Invocation  to 
Ruin  "  afford  no  less  striking  examples.  Of  the  tender  and 
the  moral,  specimens  equally  advantageous  might  be  drawn 
from  the  elegiac  verses,  entitled,  "  Man  was  made  to  Mourn," 
from  "  The  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,"  the  stanzas  "  To  a 
Mouse,"  or  those  "  To  a  Mountain  Daisy,  on  turning  it  down 
with  the  plough  in  April,  1786."  This  last  poem  I  shall  insert 
entire,  not  from  its  superior  merit,  but  because  its  length  suits 
the  bounds  of  my  paper : 

"  Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour, 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

"Alas!  it's  no  thy  neighbor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet; 
Bending  thee  'mong  the  dewy  weet 

Wi'  spreckled  breast, 
When  upward-springing,  blythe  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

**  Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 


EXTRAORDINARY  ACCOUNT  OF   ROBERT   BURNS    395 


"  The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 
High-sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield, 
But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 

Of  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stubble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

"  There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snowy  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head, 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies! 

*'  Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed. 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  in  the  dust. 

"  Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 
On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er. 

*'  Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven. 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink. 
Till,  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He  ruined  sink. 

"  Ev'n  thou  who  mournst  the  daisy's  fate. 

That  fate  is  thine No  distant  date; 

Stern  Ruin's  plough-share  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight. 

Shall  be  thy  doom." 

t  have  seldom  met  with  an  image  more  truly  pastoral  than 
that  of  the  lark,  in  the  second  stanza.  Such  strokes  as  these 
mark  the  pencil  of  the  poet,  which  delineates  nature  with  the 
precision  of  intimacy,  yet  with  the  delicate  coloring  of  beauty 
and  of  taste. 


396  MACKENZIE 

The  power  of  genius  is  not  less  admirable  in  tracing  the  man- 
ners, than  in  painting  the  passions,  or  in  drawing  the  scenery  of 
nature.  That  intuitive  glance  with  which  a  writer  like  Shake- 
speare discerns  the  characters  of  men,  with  which  he  catches 
the  many  changing  hues  of  life,  forms  a  sort  of  problem  in  the 
science  of  mind,  of  which  it  is  easier  to  see  the  truth  than  to 
assign  the  cause.  Though  I  am  very  far  from  meaning  to  com- 
pare our  rustic  bard  to  Shakespeare,  yet  whoever  will  read  his 
lighter  and  more  humorous  poems,  his  "  Dialogue  of  the  Dogs," 

his  "  Dedication  to  G H ,  Esq.,"  his  "  Epistles  to  a 

Young  Friend,"  and  to  "  W.  S n,"  will  perceive  with  what 

uncommon  penetration  and  sagacity  this  heaven-taught  plough- 
man, from  his  humble  and  unlettered  station,  has  looked  upon 
men  and  manners. 

Against  some  passages  of  those  last-mentioned  poems  it  has 
been  objected  that  they  breathe  a  spirit  of  libertinism  and  irre- 
ligion.  But  if  we  consider  the  ignorance  and  fanaticism  of  the 
lower  class  of  people  in  the  country  where  these  poems  were 
written,  a  fanaticism  of  that  pernicious  sort  which  sets  faith  in 
opposition  to  good  works,  the  fallacy  and  danger  of  which  a 
mind  so  enlightened  as  our  poet's  could  not  but  perceive ;  we 
shall  not  look  upon  his  lighter  muse  as  the  enemy  of  religion  (of 
which  in  several  places  he  expresses  the  justest  sentiments), 
though  she  has  sometimes  been  a  little  unguarded  in  her  ridi- 
cule of  hypocrisy. 

In  this,  as  in  other  respects,  it  must  be  allowed,  that  there  are 
exceptionable  parts  of  the  volume  he  has  given  to  the  public 
which  caution  would  have  suppressed,  or  correction  struck  out ; 
but  poets  are  seldom  cautions,  and  our  poet  had,  alas !  no 
friends  or  companions  from  whom  correction  could  be  obtained. 
When  we  reflect  on  his  rank  in  life,  the  habits  to  which  he  must 
have  been  subject,  and  the  society  in  which  he  must  have  mixed, 
we  regret  perhaps  more  than  wonder  that  delicacy  should  be 
so  often  offended  in  perusing  a  volume  in  which  there  is  so 
much  to  interest  and  to  please  us. 

Burns  possesses  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  fancy  of  a  poet. 
That  honest  pride  and  independence  of  soul  which  are  some- 
times the  muse's  only  dower  break  forth  on  every  occasion  in 
his  works.  It  may  be,  then,  I  shall  wrong  his  feelings,  while  I 
indulge  my  own,  in  calling  the  attention  of  the  public  to  his 


EXTRAORDINARY   ACCOUNT   OF   ROBERT   BURNS    397 

situation  and  circumstances.  That  condition,  humble  as  it  was, 
in  which  he  found  content,  and  wooed  the  muse,  might  not  have 
been  deemed  uncomfortable;  but  grief  and  misfortunes  have 
reached  him  there ;  and  one  or  two  of  his  poems  hint,  what  I 
have  learned  from  some  of  his  countrymen,  that  he  has  been 
obliged  to  form  the  resolution  of  leaving  his  native  land,  to 
seek  under  a  West  Indian  clime  that  shelter  and  support  which 
Scotland  has  denied  him.  But  I  trust  means  may  be  found  to 
prevent  this  resolution  from  taking  place;  and  that  I  do  my 
country  no  more  than  justice  v;hen  I  suppose  her  ready  to 
stretch  out  her  hand  to  cherish  and  retain  this  native  poet,  \vhose 
"  woodnotes  wild  "  possess  so  much  excellence.  To  repair  the 
wrongs  of  suffering  or  neglected  merit;  to  call  forth  genius 
from  the  obscurity  in  which  it  had  pined  indignant,  and  place 
it  where  it  may  profit  or  delight  the  world ;  these  are  exertions 
which  give  to  wealth  an  enviable  superiority,  to  greatness  and 
to  patronage  a  laudable  pride. 


FALLACIES    OF    ANTI -REFORMERS 


BY 


SYDNEY    SMITH 


SYDNEY    SMITH 

1771— 1845 

Sydney  Smith  was  born  at  Woodford,  near  London,  in  the  year 
1771.  He  was  educated  at  Winchester  School  and  at  New  College, 
where  he  obtained  a  fellowship  in  1790.  He  took  orders,  and  settled 
in  his  first  curacy  in  a  remote  village  on  Salisbury  Plain.  At  the  end 
of  two  years  he  resigned  his  charge  in  order  to  accompany  the  son 
of  the  squire  of  the  parish  to  Weimar,  where  he  was  to  reside  for  his 
education.  The  war  of  1797  defeated  this  purpose,  and  tutor  and 
scholar  were  driven  to  Edinburgh,  where  Sydney  Smith  remained  for 
five  years  as  minister  of  the  Episcopal  Church  in  that  city.  He  be- 
came the  intimate  friend  of  Jeffrey,  Murray,  and  Brougham,  and  in 
company  with  them  commenced  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  of  which 
he  was  the  first  editor  as  well  as  one  of  the  founders.  On  his  removal 
to  London  he  continued  to  be  one  of  its  principal  contributors,  advo- 
cating in  its  pages  the  cause  of  progress  in  political  matters,  as  well 
as  in  many  questions  now  best  known  under  the  name  of  social 
science.  In  London  he  became  both  a  popular  preacher  and  also  a 
successful  lecturer  at  the  Royal  Institution.  During  the  greater  part 
of  his  life  he  was  the  friend  of  Lord  Grey,  Lord  Holland,  and  the 
other  leaders  of  the  Whig  party.  He  was  made  a  Canon  of  Bristol  in 
1828,  and  of  St.  Paul's  in  1831.     He  died  in  1845. 

"  Fallacies  of  Anti-Reformers  "  is  highly  characteristic  of  Sydney 
Smith's  style,  displaying  the  fertility  of  his  fancy  and  the  richness  of 
his  humor,  at  the  same  time  driving  home  his  argument  with  irre- 
sistible eflfect.  Like  Swift,  he  seems  never  to  have  taken  up  his  pen 
from  the  mere  love  of  composition,  but  to  enforce  practical  views  and 
opinions  on  which  he  felt  strongly.  His  wit  and  banter  are  equally 
direct  and  cogent.  Though  a  professed  joker  and  convivial  wit — "  a 
diner-out  of  the  first  lustre,"  as  he  has  himself  characterized  Mr.  Can- 
ning— there  is  not  one  of  his  humorous  or  witty  sallies  that  does  not 
seem  to  flow  naturally,  and  without  effort,  as  if  struck  out  or  remem- 
bered at  the  moment  it  is  used.  He  was  a  fine  representative  of  the 
intellectual  Englishman — manly,  fearless,  and  independent.  His  tal- 
ents were  always  exercised  on  practical  subjects;  to  correct  what  he 
deemed  abuses,  to  enforce  religious  toleration,  to  expose  cant  and 
hypocrisy,  and  to  inculcate  timely  reformation.  No  politician  was 
ever  more  disinterested  or  effective.  He  had  the  wit  and  energy  of 
Swift  without  his  coarseness  or  cynicism,  and  if  inferior  to  Swift  in 
the  high  attribute  of  original  inventive  genius,  he  had  a  peculiar  and 
inimitable  breadth  of  humor  and  drollery  of  illustration  that  served  as 
potent  auxiliaries  to  his  clear  and  logical  argument. 


400 


FALLACIES   OF  ANTI-REFORMERS 

The  Book  of  Fallacies:   from  Unfinished  Papers  of  Jeremy 
Bentham.     By  a  Friend 

THERE  are  a  vast  number  of  absurd  and  mischievous 
fallacies,  which  pass  readily  in  the  world  for  sense  and 
virtue,  while  in  truth  they  tend  only  to  fortify  error 
and  encourage  crime.     Mr.  Bentham  has  enumerated  the  most 
conspicuous  of  these  in  the  book  before  us. 

Whether  it  be  necessary  there  should  be  a  middleman  be- 
tween the  cultivator  and  the  possessor,  learned  economists  have 
doubted ;  but  neither  gods,  men,  nor  booksellers  can  doubt 
the  necessity  of  a  middleman  between  Mr.  Bentham  and  the 
public.  Mr.  Bentham  is  long;  Mr.  Bentham  is  occasionally 
involved  and  obscure  ;  Mr.  Bentham  invents  new  and  alarming 
expressions ;  Mr.  Bentham  loves  division  and  subdivision — 
and  he  loves  method  itself,  more  than  its  consequences.  Those 
only,  therefore,  who  know  his  originality,  his  knowledge,  his 
vigor,  and  his  boldness,  will  recur  to  the  works  themselves. 
The  great  mass  of  readers  will  not  purchase  improvement  at  so 
dear  a  rate ;  but  will  choose  rather  to  become  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Bentham  through  the  medium  of  reviews — after  that  emi- 
nent philosopher  has  been  washed,  trimmed,  shaved,  and 
forced  into  clean  linen.  One  great  use  of  a  review,  indeed, 
is  to  make  men  wise  in  ten  pages,  who  have  no  appetite  for  a 
hundred  pages ;  to  condense  nourishment,  to  work  with  pulp 
and  essence,  and  to  guard  the  stomach  from  idle  burden  and 
unmeaning  bulk.  For  half  a  page,  sometimes  for  a  whole 
page,  Mr.  Bentham  writes  with  a  power  which  few  can  equal ; 
and  by  selecting  and  omitting,  an  admirable  style  may  be 
formed  from  the  text.  Using  this  liberty,  we  shall  endeavor 
to  give  an  account  of  Mr.  Bentham's  doctrines,  for  the  most 
part  in  his  own  words.     Wherever  an  expression  is  particu- 

4°^  18— Vol.  57 


402  SMITH 

larly  happy,  let  it  be  considered  to  be  Mr.  Bentham's — the 
dulness  we  take  to  ourselves. 

Our  Wise  Ancestors — The  Wisdom  of  Our  Ancestors — 
The  Wisdom  of  Ages — Venerable  Antiquity — Wisdom  of  Old 
Times. — This  mischievous  and  absurd  fallacy  springs  from  the 
grossest  perversion  of  the  meaning  of  words.  Experience 
is  certainly  the  mother  of  wisdom,  and  the  old  have,  of  course, 
a  greater  experience  than  the  young ;  but  the  question  is  who 
are  the  old?  and  who  are  the  young?  Of  individuals  Hving 
at  the  same  period,  the  oldest  has,  of  course,  the  greatest  ex- 
perience; but  among  generations  of  men  the  reverse  of  this 
is  true.  Those  who  come  first  (our  ancestors)  are  the  young 
people,  and  have  the  least  experience.  We  have  added  to 
their  experience  the  experience  of  many  centuries ;  and,  there- 
fore, as  far  as  experience  goes,  are  wiser,  and  more  capable 
of  forming  an  opinion  than  they  were.  The  real  feeling  should 
be,  not  can  we  be  so  presumptuous  as  to  put  our  opinions  in 
opposition  to  those  of  our  ancestors?  but  can  such  young, 
ignorant,  inexperienced  persons  as  our  ancestors  necessarily 
were,  be  expected  to  have  understood  a  subject  as  well  as 
those  who  have  seen  so  much  more,  lived  so  much  longer,  and 
enjoyed  the  experience  of  so  many  centuries?  All  this  cant, 
then,  about  our  ancestors  is  merely  an  abuse  of  words,  by 
transferring  phrases  true  of  contemporary  men  to  succeeding 
ages.  Whereas  (as  we  have  before  observed)  of  living  men 
the  oldest  has,  cceteris  paribus,  the  most  experience;  of  gen- 
erations, the  oldest  has,  cceteris  paribus,  the  least  experience. 
Our  ancestors,  up  to  the  Conquest,  were  children  in  arms ; 
chubby  boys  in  the  time  of  Edward  I ;  striplings  under  Eliza- 
beth ;  men  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne ;  and  ive  only  are  the 
white-bearded,  silver-headed  ancients,  who  have  treasured  up, 
and  are  prepared  to  profit  by,  all  the  experience  which  human 
life  can  supply.  We  are  not  disputing  with  our  ancestors  the 
palm  of  talent,  in  which  they  may  or  may  not  be  our  superiors, 
but  the  palm  of  experience  in  which  it  is  utterly  impossible 
they  can  be  our  superiors.  And  yet,  whenever  the  Chancellor 
comes  forward  to  protect  some  abuse,  or  to  oppose  some  plan 
which  has  the  increase  of  human  happiness  for  its  object,  his 
first  appeal  is  always  to  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors ;  and  he 
himself,  and  many  noble  lords  who  vote  with  him,  are,  to  this 


FALLACIES   OF   ANTI-REFORMERS 


403 


hour,  persuaded  that  all  alterations  and  amendments  on  their 
devices  are  an  unblushing  controversy  between  youthful  temer- 
ity and  mature  experience ! — and  so,  in  truth  they  are — only 
that  much-loved  magistrate  mistakes  the  young  for  the  old, 
and  the  old  for  the  young — and  is  guilty  of  that  very  sin  against 
experience  which  he  attributes  to  the  lovers  of  innovation. 

We  cannot  of  course  be  supposed  to  maintain  that  our  an- 
cestors wanted  wisdom,  or  that  they  were  necessarily  mistaken 
in  their  institutions,  because  their  means  of  information  were 
more  limited  than  ours.  But  we  do  confidently  maintain 
that  when  we  find  it  expedient  to  change  anything  which  our 
ancestors  have  enacted,  we  are  the  experienced  persons,  and 
not  they.  The  quantity  of  talent  is  always  varying  in  any 
great  nation.  To  say  that  we  are  more  or  less  able  than  our 
ancestors  is  an  assertion  that  requires  to  be  explained.  All 
the  able  men  of  all  ages,  who  have  ever  lived  in  England, 
probably  possessed,  if  taken  altogether,  more  intellect  than 
all  the  able  men  England  can  now  boast  of.  But  if  authority 
must  be  resorted  to  rather  than  reason,  the  question  is.  What 
was  the  wisdom  of  that  single  age  which  enacted  the  law, 
compared  with  the  wisdom  of  the  age  which  proposes  to  alter 
it?  What  are  the  eminent  men  of  one  and  the  other  period? 
If  you  say  that  our  ancestors  were  wiser  than  us,  mention  your 
date  and  year.  If  the  splendor  of  names  is  equal,  are  the  cir- 
cumstances the  same?  If  the  circumstances  are  the  same,  we 
have  a  superiority  of  experience,  of  which  the  difference  be- 
tween the  two  periods  is  the  measure.  It  is  necessary  to  insist 
upon  this ;  for  upon  sacks  of  wool,  and  on  benches  forensic, 
sit  grave  men,  and  agricolous  persons  in  the  Commons,  crying 
out:  "Ancestors,  ancestors!  hodie  non!  Saxons,  Danes,  save 
us !  Fiddlefrig,  help  us !  Howel,  Ethelwolf,  protect  us !  " 
Any  cover  for  nonsense — any  veil  for  trash — any  pretext  for 
repelling  the  innovations  of  conscience  and  of  duty ! 

"  So  long  as  they  keep  to  vague  generalities — so  long  as  the 
two  objects  of  comparison  are  each  of  them  taken  in  the  lump 
— wise  ancestors  in  one  lump,  ignorant  and  foolish  mob  of 
modern  times  in  the  other — the  weakness  of  the  fallacy  may 
escape  detection.  But  let  them  assign  for  the  period  of  su- 
perior wisdom  any  determinate  period  whatsoever,  not  only 
will  the  groundlessness  of  the  notion  be  apparent  (class  being 


404 


SMITH 


compared  with  class  in  that  period  and  the  present  one),  but, 
unless  the  antecedent  period  be  comparatively  speaking  a  very 
modern  one,  so  wide  will  be  the  disparity,  and  to  such  an 
amount  in  favor  of  modern  times,  that,  in  comparison  of  the 
lowest  class  of  the  people  in  modern  times  (always  supposing 
them  proficient  in  the  art  of  reading,  and  their  proficiency 
employed  in  the  reading  of  newspapers),  the  very  highest  and 
best-informed  class  of  these  wise  ancestors  will  turn  out  to  be 
grossly  ignorant. 

"  Take,  for  example,  any  year  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII, 
from  1509  to  1546.  At  that  time  the  House  of  Lords  would 
probably  have  been  in  possession  of  by  far  the  larger  propor- 
tion of  what  little  instruction  the  age  afforded ;  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  among  the  laity,  it  might  even  then  be  a  question 
whether,  without  exception,  their  lordships  were  all  of  them 
able  so  much  as  to  read.  But  even  supposing  them  all  in  the 
fullest  possession  of  that  useful  art,  political  science  being  the 
science  in  question,  what  instruction  on  the  subject  could  they 
meet  with  at  that  time  of  day? 

"  On  no  one  branch  of  legislation  was  any  book  extant  from 
which,  with  regard  to  the  circumstances  of  the  then  present 
times,  any  useful  instruction  could  be  derived :  distributive 
law,  penal  law,  international  law,  political  economy,  so  far 
from  existing  as  sciences,  had  scarcely  obtained  a  name :  in 
all  those  departments  under  the  head  of  quid  faciendum,  a  mere 
blank :  the  whole  literature  of  the  age  consisted  of  a  meagre 
chronicle  or  two,  containing  short  memorandums  of  the  usual 
occurrences  of  war  and  peace,  battles,  sieges,  executions,  revels, 
deaths,  births,  processions,  ceremonies,  and  other  external 
events;  but  with  scarce  a  speech  or  an  incident  that  could 
enter  into  the  composition  of  any  such  work  as  a  history  of  the 
human  mind — with  scarce  an  attempt  at  investigation  into 
causes,  characters,  or  the  state  of  the  people  at  large.  Even 
when  at  last,  little  by  little,  a  scrap  or  two  of  political  instruc- 
tion came  to  be  obtainable,  the  proportion  of  error  and  mis- 
chievous doctrine  mixed  up  with  it  was  so  great,  that  whether 
a  blank  unfilled  might  not  have  been  less  prejudicial  than  a 
blank  thus  filled,  may  reasonably  be  matter  of  doubt. 

"  If  we  come  down  to  the  reign  of  James  I,  we  shall  find  that 
Solomon  of  his  time  eminently  eloquent  as  well  as  learned,  not 


FALLACIES   OF   ANTI-REFORMERS  405 

only  among  crowned  but  among  uncrowned  heads,  marking 
out  for  prohibition  and  punishment  the  practices  of  devils  and 
witches,  and  without  the  slightest  objection  on  the  part  of  the 
great  characters  of  that  day  in  their  high  situations,  consign- 
ing men  to  death  and  torment  for  the  misfortune  of  not  being 
so  well  acquainted  as  he  was  with  the  composition  of  the  God- 
head. 

"  Under  the  name  of  exorcism  the  Catholic  liturgy  contains 
a  form  of  procedure  for  driving  out  devils; — even  with  the 
help  of  this  instrument,  the  operation  cannot  be  performed 
with  the  desired  success,  but  by  an  operator  qualified  by  holy 
orders  for  the  working  of  this  as  well  as  so  many  other  wonders. 
In  our  days  and  in  our  country  the  same  objtct  is  attained, 
and  beyond  comparison  more  effectually,  by  so  cheap  an  in- 
strument as  a  common  newspaper;  before  this  talisman,  not 
only  devils  but  ghosts,  vampires,  witches,  and  all'  their  kindred 
tribes,  are  driven  out  of  the  land,  never  to  return  again !  The 
touch  of  holy  water  is  not  so  intolerable  to  them  as  the  bare 
smell  of  printers'  ink." 

Fallacy  of  Irrevocable  Laws. — A  law,  says  Mr.  Ben- 
tham  (no  matter  to  what  effect)  is  proposed  to  a  legislative 
assembly,  who  are  called  upon  to  reject  it,  upon  the  single 
ground  that  by  those  who  in  some  former  period  exercised 
the  same  power,  a  regulation  was  made,  having  for  its  object 
to  preclude  forever,  or  to  the  end  of  an  unexpired  period,  all 
succeeding  legislators  from  enacting  a  law  to  any  such  effect 
as  that  now  proposed. 

Now  it  appears  quite  evident  that,  at  every  period  of  time, 
every  legislature  must  be  endowed  with  all  those  powers  which 
the  exigency  of  the  times  may  require;  and  any  attempt  to 
infringe  on  this  power  is  inadmissible  and  absurd.  The  sov- 
ereign power,  at  any  one  period,  can  only  form  a  blind  guess 
at  the  measures  which  may  be  necessary  for  any  future  period ; 
but  by  this  principle  of  immutable  laws,  the  government  is 
transferred  from  those  who  are  necessarily  the  best  judges  of 
what  they  want,  to  others  who  can  know  little  or  nothing  about 
the  matter.  The  thirteenth  century  decides  for  the  fourteenth. 
The  fourteenth  makes  laws  for  the  fifteenth.  The  fifteenth 
hermetically  seals  up  the  sixteenth,  which  tyrannizes  over  the 
seventeenth,  which  again  tells  the  eighteenth  how  it  is  to  act, 


4o6  SMITH 

under  circumstances  which  cannot  be  foreseen,  and  how  it  is 
to  conduct  itself  in  exigencies  which  no  human  wit  can  an- 
ticipate. 

"  Men  who  have  a  century  more  experience  to  ground  theif 
judgments  on,  surrender  their  intellect  to  men  who  had  a 
century  less  experience,  and  who,  unless  that  deficiency  con- 
stitutes a  claim,  have  no  claim  to  preference.  If  the  prior  gen- 
eration were,  in  respect  of  intellectual  qualification,  ever  so 
much  superior  to  the  subsequent  generation — if  it  understood 
so  much  better  than  the  subsequent  generation  itself  the  in- 
terest of  that  subsequent  generation — could  it  have  been  in  an 
equal  degree  anxious  to  promote  that  interest,  and  conse- 
quently equally  attentive  to  those  facts  with  which,  though 
in  order  to  form  a  judgment  it  ought  to  have  been,  it  is  im- 
possible that  it  should  have  been,  acquainted  ?  In  a  word,  will 
its  love  for  that  subsequent  generation  be  quite  so  great  as  that 
same  generation's  love  for  itself? 

"  Not  even  here,  after  a  moment's  deliberate  reflection,  will 
the  assertion  be  in  the  affirmative.  And  yet  it  is  their  prodi- 
gious anxiety  for  the  welfare  of  their  posterity  that  produces 
the  propensity  of  these  sages  to  tie  up  the  hands  of  this  same 
posterity  forever  more — to  act  as  guardians  to  its  perpetual 
and  incurable  weakness,  and  take  its  conduct  forever  out  of  its 
own  hands. 

"  If  it  be  right  that  the  conduct  of  the  nineteenth  century 
should  be  determined  not  by  its  own  judgment  but  by  that  of 
the  eighteenth,  it  will  be  equally  right  that  the  conduct  of  the 
twentieth  century  should  be  determined  not  by  its  own  judg- 
ment but  by  that  of  the  nineteenth.  And  if  the  same  principle 
were  still  pursued,  what  at  length  would  be  the  consequence  ? 
■ — that  in  process  of  time  the  practice  of  legislation  would  be  at 
an  end.  The  conduct  and  fate  of  all  men  would  be  determined 
by  those  who  neither  knew  nor  cared  anything  about  the  mat- 
ter ;  and  the  aggregate  body  of  the  living  would  remain  for- 
ever in  subjection  to  an  inexorable  tyranny,  exercised  as  it 
were  by  the  aggregate  body  of  the  dead." 

The  despotism,  as  Mr.  Bentham  well  observes,  of  Nero  or 
Caligula  would  be  more  tolerable  than  an  "  irrevocable  law." 
The  despot,  through  fear  or  favor,  or  in  a  lucid  interval,  might 
relent;    but  how  are  the  Parliament  who  made  the  Scotch 


FALLACIES   OF   ANTI-REFORMERS 


407 


Union,  for  example,  to  be  awakened  from  that  dust  in  which 
they  repose — the  jobber  and  the  patriot,  the  speaker  and  the 
doorkeeper,  the  silent  voters  and  the  men  of  rich  allusions, 
Cannings  and  cultivators,  Barings  and  beggars — making  irrev- 
ocable laws  for  men  who  toss  their  remains  about  with  spades, 
and  use  the  relics  of  these  legislators  to  give  breadth  to 
broccoli,  and  to  aid  the  vernal  eruption  of  asparagus  ? 

If  the  law  be  good,  it  will  support  itself;  if  bad,  it  should 
not  b ,  supported  by  "  irrevocable  theory,"  which  is  never  re- 
sorted to  but  as  the  veil  of  abuses.  All  living  men  must  pos- 
sess the  supreme  power  over  their  own  happiness  at  every 
particular  period.  To  suppose  that  there  is  anything  which 
a  whole  nation  cannot  do,  which  they  deem  to  be  essential  to 
their  happiness,  and  that  they  cannot  do  it,  because  another 
generation,  long  ago  dead  and  gone,  said  it  must  not  be  done, 
is  mere  nonsense.  While  you  are  captain  of  the  vessel,  do 
what  you  please ;  but  the  moment  you  quit  the  ship  I  become 
as  omnipotent  as  you.  You  may  leave  me  as  much  advice  as 
you  please,  but  you  cannot  leave  me  commands ;  though,  in 
fact,  this  is  the  only  meaning  which  can  be  applied  to  what  are 
called  irrevocable  laws.  It  appeared  to  the  legislature  for  the 
time  being  to  be  of  immense  importance  to  make  such  and 
such  a  law.  Great  good  was  gained,  or  great  evil  avoided,  by 
enacting  it.  Pause  before  you  alter  an  institution  which  has 
been  deemed  to  be  of  so  much  importance.  This  is  prudence 
and  common-sense;  the  rest  is  the  exaggeration  of  fools,  or 
the  artifice  of  knaves,  who  eat  up  fools.  What  endless  non- 
sense has  been  talked  of  our  navigation  laws!  What  wealth 
has  been  sacrificed  to  either  before  they  were  repealed !  How 
impossible  it  appeared  to  Noodledom  to  repeal  them!  They 
were  considered  of  the  irrevocable  class — a  kind  of  law  over 
which  the  dead  only  were  omnipotent,  and  the  living  had  no 
power.  Frost,  it  is  true,  cannot  be  put  off  by  act  of  Parliament, 
nor  can  spring  be  accelerated  by  any  majority  of  both  houses. 
It  is,  however,  quite  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  any  alteration 
of  any  of  the  articles  of  union  is  as  much  out  of  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  Parliament  as  these  meteorological  changes.  In  every 
year,  and  every  day  of  that  year,  living  men  have  a  right  to 
make  their  own  laws  and  manage  their  own  affairs ;  to  break 
through   the  tyranny  of  the   antespirants — the   people   who 


4o8 


SMITH 


breathed  before  them — and  to  do  what  they  please  for  them- 
selves. Such  supreme  power  cannot  indeed  be  well  exercised 
by  the  people  at  large ;  it  must  be  exercised  therefore  by  the 
delegates,  or  Parliament,  Avhom  the  people  choose;  and  such 
Parliament,  disregarding  the  superstitious  reverence  for  "  ir- 
revocable laws,"  can  have  no  other  criterion  of  wrong  and 
right  than  that  of  public  utility. 

When  a  law  is  considered  as  immutable,  and  the  immutable 
law  happens  at  the  same  time  to  be  too  foolish  and  mischievous 
to  be  endured,  instead  of  being  repealed,  it  is  clandestinely 
evaded,  or  openly  violated ;  and  thus  the  authority  of  all  law 
is  weakened. 

Where  a  nation  has  been  ancestorially  bound  by  foolish  and 
improvident  treaties,  ample  notice  must  be  given  of  their  ter- 
mination. Where  the  State  has  made  ill-advised  grants,  or 
rash  bargains  with  individuals,  it  is  necessary  to  grant  proper 
compensation.  The  most  difficult  case,  certainly,  is  that  of 
the  union  of  nations,  where  a  smaller  number  of  the  weaker 
nation  is  admitted  into  the  larger  senate  of  the  greater  nation, 
and  will  be  overpowered  if  the  question  come  to  a  vote ;  but 
the  lesser  nation  must  run  this  risk;  it  is  not  probable  that 
any  violation  of  articles  will  take  place  till  they  are  absolutely 
called  for  by  extreme  necessity.  But  let  the  danger  be  what 
it  may,  no  danger  is  so  great,  no  supposition  so  foolish,  as  to 
consider  any  human  law  as  irrevocable.  The  shifting  attitude 
of  human  afifairs  would  often  render  such  a  condition  an  in- 
tolerable evil  to  all  parties.  The  absurd  jealousy  of  our  coun- 
trymen at  the  Union  secured  heritable  jurisdiction  to  the  own- 
ers; nine  and  thirty  years  afterward  they  were  abolished,  in 
the  very  teeth  of  the  Act  of  Union,  and  to  the  evident  promo- 
tion of  the  public  good. 

Continuity  of  a  Law  by  Oath. — The  sovereign  of  Eng- 
land at  his  coronation  takes  an  oath  to  maintain  the  laws  of 
God,  the  true  profession  of  the  Gospel,  and  the  Protestant  re- 
ligion, as  established  by  law,  and  to  preserve  to  the  bishops  and 
clergy  of  this  realm  the  rights  and  privileges  which  by  law 
appertain  to  them,  and  to  preserve  inviolate  the  doctrine,  dis- 
cipline, worship,  and  the  government  of  the  Church.  It  has 
been  suggested  that  by  this  oath  the  King  stands  precluded 
from  granting  those  indulgences  to  the  Irish  Catholics  which 


FALLACIES   OF  ANTI-REFORMERS  409 

are  included  in  the  bill  for  their  emancipation.  The  true  mean- 
ing of  these  provisions  is  of  course  to  be  decided,  if  doubtful, 
by  the  same  legislative  authority  which  enacted  them.  But 
a  different  notion  it  seems  is  now  afloat.  The  King  for  the 
time  being  (we  are  putting  an  imaginary  case)  thinks  as  an 
individual  that  he  is  not  maintaining  the  doctrine,  discipline, 
and  rights  of  the  Church  of  England,  if  he  grant  any  extension 
of  civil  rights  to  those  who  are  not  members  of  that  Church ; 
that  he  is  violating  his  oath  by  so  doing.  This  oath,  then,  ac- 
cording to  this  reasoning,  is  the  great  palladium  of  the  Church. 
As  long  as  it  remains  inviolate  the  Church  is  safe.  How, 
then,  can  any  monarch  who  has  taken  it  ever  consent  to  repeal 
it?  How  can  he,  consistently  with  his  oath  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  privileges  of  the  Church,  contribute  his  part  to 
throw  down  so  strong  a  bulwark  as  he  deems  his  oath  to  be ! 
The  oath,  then,  cannot  be  altered.  It  must  remain  under  all 
circumstances  of  society  the  same.  The  King  who  has  taken 
it  is  bound  to  continue  it,  and  to  refuse  his  sanction  to  any 
bill  for  its  future  alteration,  because  it  prevents  him,  and,  he 
must  needs  think,  will  prevent  others,  from  granting  dangerous 
immunities  to  the  enemies  of  the  Church. 

Here,  then,  is  an  irrevocable  law — a  piece  of  absurd  tyranny 
exercised  by  the  rulers  of  Queen  Anne's  time  upon  the  gov- 
ernment of  1825 — a  certain  art  of  potting  and  preserving  a 
kingdom  in  one  shape,  attitude,  and  flavor — and  in  this  way 
it  is  that  an  institution  appears  like  old  ladies'  sweetmeats  and 
made  wines — Apricot  Jam  1822 — Currant  Wine  1819 — Court 
of  Chancery  1427 — Penal  Laws  against  Catholics  1676.  The 
difference  is,  that  the  ancient  woman  is  a  better  judge  of  mouldy 
commodities  than  the  illiberal  part  of  his  Majesty's  ministers. 
The  potting  lady  goes  sniffing  about  and  admitting  light  and 
air  to  prevent  the  progress  of  decay ;  while  to  him  of  the  wool- 
sack all  seems  doubly  dear  in  proportion  as  it  is  antiquated, 
worthless,  and  unusable.  It  ought  not  to  be  in  the  power  of 
the  sovereign  to  tie  up  his  own  hands,  much  less  the  hands  of 
his  successors.  If  the  sovereign  were  to  oppose  his  own  opin- 
ion to  that  of  the  two  other  branches  of  the  legislature,  and 
himself  to  decide  what  he  considers  to  be  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Protestant  Church,  and  what  not,  a  king  who  has  spent  his 
whole  life  in  the  frivolous  occupation  of  a  court  may  by  per- 


4IO  SMITH 

version  of  understanding  conceive  measures  most  salutary  to 
the  Church  to  be  most  pernicious,  and,  persevering  obstinately 
in  his  own  error,  may  frustrate  the  wisdom  of  his  parliament, 
and  perpetuate  the  most  inconceivable  folly !  If  Henry  VIII 
had  argued  in  this  manner  we  should  have  had  no  Reforma- 
tion. If  George  III  had  always  argued  in  this  manner  the 
Catholic  code  would  never  have  been  relaxed.  And  thus  a 
King,  however  incapable  of  forming  an  opinion  upon  serious 
subjects,  has  nothing  to  do  but  pronounce  the  word  "  Con- 
science," and  the  whole  power  of  the  country  is  at  his  feet. 

Can  there  be  greater  absurdity  than  to  say  that  a  man  is 
acting  contrary  to  his  conscience  who  surrenders  his  opinion 
upon  any  subject  to  those  who  must  understand  the  subject 
better  than  himself?  I  think  my  ward  has  a  claim  to  the 
estate ;  but  the  best  lawyers  tell  me  he  has  none.  I  think  my 
son  capable  of  undergoing  the  fatigues  of  a  military  life ;  but 
the  best  physicians  say  he  is  much  too  weak.  My  Parliament 
say  this  measure  will  do  the  Church  no  harm ;  but  I  think  it 
very  pernicious  to  the  Church.  Am  I  acting  contrary  to  my 
conscience  because  I  apply  much  higher  intellectual  powers 
than  my  own  to  the  investigation  and  protection  of  these  high 
interests  ? 

"  According  to  the  form  in  which  it  is  conceived,  any  such 
engagement  is  in  effect  either  a  check  or  a  license : — a  license 
under  the  appearance  of  a  check,  and  for  that  very  reason  but 
the  more  efficiently  operative. 

"  Chains  to  the  man  in  power?  Yes: — but  only  such  as  he 
figures  with  on  the  stage ;  to  the  spectators  as  imposing,  to 
himself  as  light  as  possible.  Modelled  by  the  wearer  to  suit 
his  own  purposes,  they  serve  to  rattle  but  not  to  restrain. 

"  Suppose  a  king  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  to  have  ex- 
pressed his  fixed  determination,  in  the  event  of  any  proposed 
law  being  tendered  to  him  for  his  assent,  to  refuse  such  assent, 
and  this  not  on  the  persuasion  that  the  law  would  not  be  '  for 
the  utility  of  the  subjects,'  but  that  by  his  coronation  oath  he 
stands  precluded  from  so  doing,  the  course  proper  to  be  taken 
by  Parliament,  the  course  pointed  out  by  principle  and  prece- 
dent, would  be  a  vote  of  abdication — a  vote  declaring  the  king 
to  have  abdicated  his  royal  authority,  and  that,  as  in  case  of 


FALLACIES   OF   ANTI-REFORMERS  4" 

death  or  incurable  mental  derangement,  now  is  the  time  for 
the  person  next  in  succession  to  take  his  place. 

"  In  the  celebrated  case  in  which  a  vote  to  this  effect  was 
actually  passed,  the  declaration  of  abdication  was,  in  lawyers' 
language,  a  fiction — in  plam  truth,  a  falsehood,  and  that  false- 
hood a  mockery ;  not  a  particle  of  his  power  was  it  the  wish 
of  James  to  abdicate,  to  part  with,  but  to  increase  it  to  a  maxi- 
mum was  the  manifest  object  of  all  his  efforts.  But  in  the  case 
here  supposed,  with  respect  to  a  part,  and  that  a  principal  part 
of  the  royal  authority,  the  will  and  purpose  to  abdicate  is  act- 
ually declared ;  and  this  being  such  a  part,  without  which  the 
remainder  cannot,  '  to  the  utility  of  the  subjects,'  be  exercised, 
the  remainder  must  of  necessity  be,  on  their  part  and  for  their 
sake,  added." 

Self-Trumpeter's  Fallacy. — Mr.  Bentham  explains  the 
self-trumpeter's  fallacy  as  follows: 

"  There  are  certain  men  in  office  who,  in  discharge  of  their 
functions,  arrogate  to  themselves  a  degree  of  probity,  which  is 
to  exclude  all  imputations  and  all  inquiry.  Their  assertions 
are  to  be  deemed  equivalent  to  proof,  their  virtues  are  guaran- 
ties for  the  faithful  discharge  of  their  duties,  and  the  most  im- 
plicit confidence  is  to  be  reposed  in  them  on  all  occasions.  If 
you  expose  any  abuse,  propose  any  reform,  call  for  securities, 
inquiry,  or  measures  to  promote  publicity,  they  set  up  a  cry  of 
surprise,  amounting  almost  to  indignation,  as  if  their  integrity 
were  questioned  or  their  honor  wounded.  With  all  this,  they 
dexterously  mix  up  intimations  that  the  most  exalted  patriot- 
ism, honor,  and  perhaps  religion,  are  the  only  sources  of  all 
their  actions." 

Of  course  every  man  will  try  what  he  can  effect  by  these 
means;  but  (as  Mr.  Bentham  observes)  if  there  be  any  one 
maxim  in  politics  more  certain  than  another,  it  is  that  no  pos- 
sible degree  of  virtue  in  the  governor  can  render  it  expedient 
for  the  governed  to  dispense  with  good  laws  and  good  institu- 
tions. Madame  De  Stael  (to  her  disgrace)  said  to  the  Em- 
peror of  Russia :  "  Sire,  your  character  is  a  constitution  for 
your  country,  and  your  conscience  its  guaranty."  His  reply 
was :  "  Quand  cela  serait,  je  ne  serais  jamais  qu'un  accident 
heureux; "  and  this  we  think  one  of  the  truest  and  most  bril- 
liant replies  ever  made  by  monarch. 


412  SMITH 

Laudatory  Personalities. — "  The  object  of  laudatory  per- 
sonalities is  to  effect  the  rejection  of  a  measure  on  account  of 
the  alleged  good  character  of  those  who  oppose  it,  and  the  argu- 
ment advanced  is : '  The  measure  is  rendered  unnecessary  by  the 
virtues  of  those  who  are  in  power — their  opposition  is  a  suffi- 
cient authority  for  the  rejection  of  the  measure.  The  measure 
proposed  implies  a  distrust  of  the  members  of  his  Majesty's 
Government ;  but  so  great  is  their  integrity,  so  complete  their 
disinterestedness,  so  uniformly  do  they  prefer  the  public  ad- 
vantage to  their  own,  that  such  a  measure  is  altogether  unneces- 
sary. Their  disapproval  is  sufficient  to  warrant  an  opposition ; 
precautions  can  only  be  requisite  where  danger  is  apprehended : 
here  the  high  character  of  the  individuals  in  question  is  a  suffi- 
cient guaranty  against  any  ground  of  alarm.'  " 

The  panegyric  goes  on  increasing  with  the  dignity  of  the 
lauded  person.  All  are  honorable  and  delightful  men.  The 
person  who  opens  the  door  of  the  office  is  a  person  of  approved 
fidelity;  the  junior  clerk  is  a  model  of  assiduity;  all  the  clerks 
are  models — seven  years'  models,  eight  years'  models,  nine 
years'  models,  and  upward.  The  first  clerk  is  a  paragon,  and 
ministers  the  very  perfection  of  probity  and  intelligence  ;  and  as 
for  the  highest  magistrate  of  the  State,  no  adulation  is  equal  to 
describe  the  extent  of  his  various  merits !  It  is  too  condescend- 
ing, perhaps,  to  refute  such  folly  as  this.  But  we  would  just 
observe  that,  if  the  propriety  of  the  measure  in  question  be 
established  by  direct  arguments,  these  must  be  at  least  as  con- 
clusive against  the  character  of  those  who  oppose  it  as  their 
character  can  be  against  the  measure. 

The  effect  of  such  an  argument  is  to  give  men  of  good  or 
reputed  good  character  the  power  of  putting  a  negative  on  any 
question  not  agreeable  to  their  inclinations. 

"  In  every  public  trust  the  legislator  should,  for  the  purpose 
of  prevention,  suppose  the  trustee  disposed  to  break  the  trust 
in  every  imaginable  way  in  which  it  would  be  possible  for  him 
to  reap  from  the  breach  of  it  any  personal  advantage.  This  is 
the  principle  on  which  public  institutions  ought  to  be  formed, 
and  when  it  is  applied  to  all  men  indiscriminately,  it  is  injurious 
to  none.  The  practical  inference  is  to  oppose  to  such  possible 
(and  what  will  always  be  probable)  breaches  of  trust  every  bar 
that  can  be  opposed  consistently  with  the  power  requisite  for 


FALLACIES   OF  ANTI-REFORMERS  413 

the  efficient  and  due  discharge  of  the  trust.  Indeed,  these  argu- 
ments, drawn  from  the  supposed  virtues  of  men  in  power,  are 
opposed  to  the  first  principles  on  which  all  laws  proceed. 

"  Such  allegations  of  individual  virtue  are  never  supported 
by  specific  proof,  are  scarce  ever  susceptible  of  specific  disproof, 
and  specific  disproof,  if  offered,  could  not  be  admitted  in  either 
House  of  Parliament.  If  attempted  elsewhere,  the  punishment 
would  fall  not  on  the  unworthy  trustee,  but  on  him  by  whom 
the  un worthiness  had  been  proved." 

Fallacies  of  Pretended  Danger — Imputations  of  Bad  De- 
sign; of  Bad  Character;  of  Bad  Motives;  of  Inconsistency; 
of  Suspicions  Connections. — The  object  of  this  class  of  fallacies 
is  to  draw  aside  attention  from  the  measure  to  the  man,  and 
this  in  such  a  manner  that,  for  some  real  or  supposed  defect  in 
the  author  of  the  measure,  a  corresponding  defect  shall  be  im- 
puted to  the  measure  itself.  Thus,  "  the  author  of  the  measure 
entertains  a  bad  design;  therefore  the  measure  is  bad.  His 
character  is  bad,  therefore  the  measure  is  bad ;  his  motive  is  bad, 
I  will  vote  against  the  measure.  On  former  occasions  this  same 
person  who  proposed  the  measure  was  its  enemy,  therefore  the 
measure  is  bad.  He  is  on  a  footing  of  intimacy  with  this  or  that 
dangerous  man,  or  has  been  seen  in  his  company,  or  is  sus- 
pected of  entertaining  some  of  his  opinions,  therefore  the  meas- 
ure is  bad.  He  bears  a  name  that  at  a  former  period  was  borne 
by  a  set  of  men  now  no  more,  by  whom  bad  principles  were  en- 
tertained, therefore  the  measure  is  bad !  " 

Now,  if  the  measure  be  really  inexpedient,  why  not  at  once 
show  it  to  be  so?  If  the  measure  be  good,  is  it  bad  because  a 
bad  man  is  its  author?  If  bad,  is  it  good  because  a  good  man 
has  produced  it  ?  What  are  these  arguments  but  to  say  to  the 
assembly  who  are  to  be  the  judges  of  any  measure,  that  their 
imbecility  is  too  great  to  allow  them  to  judge  of  the  measure 
by  its  own  merits,  and  that  they  must  have  recourse  to  distant 
and  feebler  probabilities  for  that  purpose  ? 

"  In  proportion  to  the  degree  of  efficiency  with  which  a  man 
suffers  these  instruments  of  deception  to  operate  upon  his  mind, 
he  enables  bad  men  to  exercise  over  him  a  sort  of  power,  the 
thought  of  which  ought  to  cover  him  with  shame.  Allow  this 
argument  the  effect  of  a  conclusive  one,  you  put  it  into  the  power 
of  any  man  to  draw  you  at  pleasure  from  the  support  of  every 


414  S^^™ 

measure  which  in  your  own  eyes  is  good,  to  force  you  to  give 
your  support  to  any  and  every  measure  which  in  your  own  eyes 
is  bad.  Is  it  good  ? — the  bad  man  embraces  it,  and  by  the  sup- 
position, you  reject  it.  Is  it  bad? — he  vituperates  it,  and  that 
suffices  for  driving  you  into  its  embrace.  You  spHt  upon  the 
rocks  because  he  has  avoided  them ;  you  miss  the  harbor  because 
he  has  steered  into  it !  Give  yourself  up  to  any  such  blind  an- 
tipathy, you  are  no  less  in  the  power  of  your  adversaries  than 
if,  by  a  correspondently  irrational  sympathy  and  obsequious- 
ness, you  put  yourself  into  the  power  of  your  friends. 

"  Besides,  nothing  but  laborious  application  and  a  clear  and 
comprehensive  intellect  can  enable  a  man  on  any  given  subject 
to  employ  successfully  relevant  arguments  drawn  from  the  sub- 
ject itself.  To  employ  personalities,  neither  labor  nor  intellect 
is  required.  In  this  sort  of  contest  the  most  idle  and  the  most 
ignorant  are  quite  on  a  par  with,  if  not  superior  to,  the  most 
industrious  and  the  most  highly  gifted  individuals.  Nothing 
can  be  more  convenient  for  those  who  would  speak  without  the 
trouble  of  thinking.  The  same  ideas  are  brought  forward  over 
and  over  again,  and  all  that  is  required  is  to  vary  the  turn  of 
expression.  Close  and  relevant  arguments  have  very  little  hold 
on  the  passions,  and  serve  rather  to  quell  than  to  inflame  them ; 
while  in  personalities  there  is  always  something  stimulant, 
whether  on  the  part  of  him  who  praises  or  him  who  blames. 
Praise  forms  a  kind  of  connection  between  the  party  praising 
and  the  party  praised,  and  vituperation  gives  an  air  of  courage 
and  independence  to  the  party  who  blames. 

"  Ignorance  and  indolence,  friendship  and  enmity,  concur- 
ring and  conflicting  interest,  servility  and  independence,  all  con- 
spire to  give  personalities  the  ascendency  they  so  unhappily 
maintain.  The  more  we  lie  under  the  influence  of  our  own  pas- 
sions, the  more  we  rely  on  others  being  affected  in  a  similar  de- 
gree. A  man  who  can  repel  these  injuries  with  dignity  may 
often  convert  them  into  triumph :  '  Strike  me,  but  hear,'  says 
he,  and  the  fury  of  his  antagonist  redounds  to  his  own  discom- 
fiture." 

No  Innovation  ! — To  say  that  all  things  new  are  bad  is  to 
say  that  all  old  things  were  bad  in  their  commencement :  for 
of  all  the  old  things  ever  seen  or  heard  of  there  is  not  one  that 
was  not  once  new.    Whatever  is  now  establishment  was  once 


FALLACIES   OF   ANTI-REFORMERS 


415 


innovation.  The  first  inventor  of  pews  and  parish  clerks  was  no 
doubt  considered  as  a  Jacobin  in  his  day.  Judges,  juries,  criers 
of  the  court,  are  all  the  inventions  of  ardent  spirits,  who  filled 
the  world  with  alarm,  and  were  considered  as  the  great  pre- 
cursors of  ruin  and  dissolution.  No  inoculation,  no  turnpikes, 
no  reading,  no  writing,  no  popery !  The  fool  sayeth  in  his  heart 
and  crieth  with  his  mouth,  "  I  will  have  nothing  new  !  " 

Fallacy  of  Distrust  I — "  What's  at  the  Bottom  f  " — This 
fallacy  begins  with  a  virtual  admission  of  the  propriety  of  the 
measure  considered  in  itself,  and  thus  demonstrates  its  own 
futility,  and  cuts  up  from  under  itself  the  ground  which  it  en- 
deavors to  make.  A  measure  is  to  be  rejected  for  something 
that,  by  bare  possibility,  may  be  found  amiss  in  some  other 
measure!  This  is  vicarious  reprobation;  upon  this  principle 
Herod  instituted  his  massacre.  It  is  the  argument  of  a  driveller 
to  other  drivellers,  who  says :  "  We  are  not  able  to  decide  upon 
the  evil  when  it  arises;  our  only  safe  way  is  to  act  upon  the 
general  apprehension  of  evil." 

Official  Malefactor's  Screen — "Attack  Us,  You  Attack 
Government." — If  this  notion  is  acceded  to,  everyone  who  de- 
rives at  present  any  advantage  from  misrule  has  it  in  fee-simple, 
and  all  abuses,  present  and  future,  are  without  remedy.  So 
long  as  there  is  anything  amiss  in  conducting  the  business  of 
government,  so  long  as  it  can  be  made  better,  there  can  be  no 
other  mode  of  bringing  it  nearer  to  perfection  than  the  indica- 
tion of  such  imperfections  as  at  the  time  being  exist. 

"  But  so  far  is  it  from  being  true  that  a  man's  aversion  or 
contempt  for  the  hands  by  which  the  powers  of  government,  or 
even  for  the  system  under  which  they  are  exercised,  is  a  proof 
of  his  aversion  or  contempt  toward  government  itself,  that, 
even  in  proportion  to  the  strength  of  that  aversion  or  contempt, 
it  is  a  proof  of  the  opposite  affection.  What,  in  consequence  of 
such  contempt  or  aversion,  he  wishes  for  is  not  that  there  be  no 
hands  at  all  to  exercise  these  powers,  but  that  the  hands  may  be 
better  regulated ; — not  that  those  powers  should  not  be  exer- 
cised at  all,  but  that  they  should  be  better  exercised ; — not  that 
in  the  exercise  of  them  no  rules  at  all  should  be  pursued,  but 
that  the  rules  by  which  they  are  exercised  should  be  a  better 
set  of  rules. 

"  All  government  is  a  trust,  every  branch  of  government  is  a 


4i6  SMITH 

trust,  and  immemorially  acknowledged  so  to  be ;  it  is  only  by 
the  magnitude  of  the  scale  that  public  differ  from  private  trusts. 
I  complain  of  the  conduct  of  a  person  in  the  character  of  guar- 
dian, as  domestic  guardian,  having  the  care  of  a  minor  or  insane 
person.  In  so  doing  do  I  say  that  guardianship  is  a  bad  institu- 
tion ?  Does  it  enter  into  the  head  of  anyone  to  suspect  me  of 
so  doing?  I  complain  of  an  individual  in  the  character  of  a 
commercial  agent  or  assignee  of  the  effects  of  an  insolvent.  In 
so  doing  do  I  say  that  commercial  agency  is  a  bad  thing?  that 
the  practice  of  vesting  in  the  hands  of  trustees  or  assignees  the 
effects  of  an  insolvent  for  the  purpose  of  their  being  divided 
among  his  creditors  is  a  bad  practice  ?  Does  any  such  conceit 
ever  enter  into  the  head  of  man  as  that  of  suspecting  me  of  so 
doing?" 

There  are  no  complaints  against  government  in  Turkey — no 
motions  in  Parliament,  no  "  Morning  Chronicles,"  and  no 
"  Edinburgh  Reviews  " :  yet  of  all  countries  in  the  world  it  is 
that  in  which  revolts  and  revolutions  are  the  most  frequent. 

It  is  so  far  from  true  that  no  good  government  can  exist  con- 
sistently with  such  disclosure,  that  no  good  government  can 
exist  without  it.  It  is  quite  obvious  to  all  who  are  capable  of  re- 
flection that  by  no  other  means  than  by  lowering  the  governors 
in  the  estimation  of  the  people  can  there  be  hope  or  chance  of 
beneficial  change.  To  infer  from  this  wise  endeavor  to  lessen 
the  existing  rulers  in  the  estimation  of  the  people,  a  wish  of  dis- 
solving the  government,  is  either  artifice  or  error.  The  physi- 
cian who  intentionally  weakens  the  patient  by  bleeding  him  has 
no  intention  he  should  perish. 

The  greater  the  quantity  of  respect  a  man  receives,  inde- 
pendently of  good  conduct,  the  less  good  is  his  behavior  likely  to 
be.  It  is  the  interest,  therefore,  of  the  public  in  the  case  of 
each  to  see  that  the  respect  paid  to  him  should,  as  completely  as 
possible,  depend  upon  the  goodness  of  his  behavior  in  the  execu- 
tion of  his  trust.  But  it  is,  on  the  contrary,  the  interest  of  the 
trustee  that  the  respect,  the  money,  or  any  other  advantage  he 
receives  in  virtue  of  his  office,  should  be  as  great,  as  secure,  and 
as  independent  of  conduct  as  possible.  Soldiers  expect  to  be 
shot  at ;  public  men  must  expect  to  be  attacked,  and  sometimes 
unjustly.  It  keeps  up  the  habit  of  considering  their  conduct 
as  exposed  to  scrutiny ;   on  the  part  of  the  people  at  large  it 


FALLACIES    OF   ANTI-REFORMERS  417 

keeps  alive  the  expectation  of  witnessing  such  attacks,  and  the 
habit  of  looking  out  for  them.  The  friends  and  supporters  of 
government  have  always  greater  facility  in  keeping  and  raising 
it  up  than  its  adversaries  have  for  lowering  it. 

Accusation-scarer's  Device — ''  Infamy  Must  Attach  Some- 
where."— This  fallacy  consists  in  representing  the  character  of  a 
calumniator  as  necessarily  and  justly  attaching  upon  him  who, 
having  made  a  charge  of  misconduct  against  any  person  pos- 
sessed of  political  power  or  influence,  fails  of  producing  evi- 
dence sufficient  for  their  conviction. 

"  If  taken  as  a  general  proposition,  applying  to  all  public 
accusations,  nothing  can  be  more  mischievous  as  well  as  falla- 
cious. Supposing  the  charge  unfounded,  the  delivery  of  it  may 
have  been  accompanied  with  mala  tides  (consciousness  of  its 
injustice),  with  temerity  only,  or  it  may  have  been  perfectly 
blameless.  It  is  in  the  first  case  alone  that  infamy  can  with 
propriety  attach  upon  him  who  brings  it  forward.  A  charge 
really  groundless  may  have  been  honestly  believed  to  be  well 
founded,  i.e.,  believed  with  a  sort  of  provisional  credence,  suffi- 
cient for  the  purpose  of  engaging  a  man  to  do  his  part  toward 
the  bringing  about  an  investigation,  but  without  sufficient  rea- 
sons. But  a  charge  may  be  perfectly  groundless  without  at- 
taching the  smallest  particle  of  blame  upon  him  who  brings  it 
forward.  Suppose  him  to  have  heard  from  one  or  more, 
presenting  themselves  to  him  in  the  character  of  percipient  wit- 
nesses, a  story  which,  either  in  toto,  or  perhaps  only  in  circum- 
stances, though  in  circumstances  of  the  most  material  impor- 
tance, should  prove  false  and  mendacious,  how  is  the  person  who 
hears  this  and  acts  accordingly  to  blame?  What  sagacity  can 
enable  a  man  previously  to  legal  investigation,  a  man  who  has 
no  power  that  can  enable  him  to  insure  correctness  or  complete- 
ness on  the  part  of  this  extrajudicial  testimony,  to  guard  against 
deception  in  such  a  case  ?  " 

Fallacy  of  False  Consolation — "  What  is  the  Matter 
with  Youf — What  Would  You  Have? — Look  at  the  People 
There,  and  There;  Think  hozv  much  Belter  Off  You  Are  than 
They  Are — Your  Prosperity  and  Liberty  are  Objects  of  Their 
Envy;  Your  Institutions,  Models  of  Their  Imitation." — It  is 
not  the  desire  to  look  to  the  bright  side  that  is  blamed,  but  when 
a  particular  suffering,  produced  by  an  assigned  cause,  has  been 


4i8  SMITH 

pointed  out,  the  object  of  many  apologists  is  to  turn  the  eyes 
of  inquirers  and  judges  into  any  other  quarter  in  preference. 
If  a  man's  tenants  were  to  come  with  a  general  encomium  on  the 
prosperity  of  the  country  instead  of  a  specified  sum,  would  it 
be  accepted  ?  In  a  court  of  justice  in  an  action  for  damages  did 
ever  any  such  device  occur  as  that  of  pleading  assets  in  the  hands 
of  a  third  person  ?  There  is  in  fact  no  country  so  poor  and  so 
wretched  in  every  element  of  prosperity,  in  which  matter  for 
this  argument  might  not  be  found.  Were  the  prosperity  of  the 
country  tenfold  as  great  as  at  present,  the  absurdity  of  the  argu- 
ment would  not  in  the  least  degree  be  lessened.  Why  should 
the  smallest  evil  be  endured  which  can  be  cured  because  others 
suffer  patiently  under  greater  evils?  Should  the  smallest  im- 
provement attainable  be  neglected  because  others  remain  con- 
tented in  a  state  of  still  greater  inferiority  ? 

"  Seriously  and  pointedly  in  the  character  of  a  bar  to  any 
measure  of  relief,  no,  nor  to  the  most  trivial  improvement,  can 
it  ever  be  employed.  Suppose  a  bill  brought  in  for  converting  an 
impassable  road  anywhere  into  a  passable  one,  would  any  man 
stand  up  to  oppose  it  who  could  find  nothing  better  to  urge 
against  it  than  the  multitude  and  goodness  of  the  roads  we  have 
already?  No:  when  in  the  character  of  a  serious  bar  to  the 
measure  in  hand,  be  that  measure  what  it  may,  an  argument  so 
palpably  inapplicable  is  employed,  it  can  only  be  for  the  pur- 
pose of  creating  a  diversion ; — of  turning  aside  the  minds  of 
men  from  the  subject  really  in  hand  to  a  picture  which,  by  its 
beauty,  it  is  hoped,  may  engross  the  attention  of  the  assembly, 
and  make  them  forget  for  the  moment  for  what  purpose  they 
came  there." 

The  Quietist,  or  No  Complaint. — "  A  new  law  of  measure 
being  proposed  in  the  character  of  a  remedy  for  some  incon- 
testable abuse  or  evil,  an  objection  is  frequently  started  to  the 
following  effect : — '  The  measure  is  unnecessary.  Nobody  com- 
plains of  disorder  in  that  shape,  in  which  it  is  the  aim  of  your 
measure  to  propose  a  remedy  to  it.  But  even  when  no  cause  of 
complaint  has  been  found  to  exist,  especially  under  govern- 
ments which  admit  of  complaints,  men  have  in  general  not  been 
slow  to  complain  ;  much  less  where  any  just  cause  of  complaint 
has  existed.'  The  argument  amounts  to  this: — Nobody  com- 
plains, therefore  nobody  suffers.    It  amounts  to  a  veto  on  all 


FALLACIES   OF   ANTI-REFORMERS  419 

measures  of  precaution  or  prevention,  and  goes  to  establish  a 
maxim  in  legislation  directly  opposed  to  the  most  ordinary  pru- 
dence of  common  life;  it  enjoins  us  to  build  no  parapets  to  a 
bridge  till  the  number  of  accidents  has  raised  a  universal 
clamor." 

Procrastinator's  Argument — "  Wait  a  Little;  This  is  Not 
the  Time." — This  is  the  common  argument  of  men  v^ho,  being 
in  reality  hostile  to  a  measure,  are  ashamed  or  afraid  of  appear- 
ing to  be  so.     To-day  is  the  plea — eternal  exclusion  commonly 
the  object.    It  is  the  same  sort  of  quirk  as  a  plea  of  abatement 
in  law — which  is  never  employed  but  on  the  side  of  a  dishonest 
defendant,  whose  hope  it  is  to  obtain  an  ultimate  triumph,  by 
overwhelming  his  adversary  with  despair,  impoverishment,  and 
lassitude.    Which  is  the  properest  day  to  do  good  ?  which  is  the 
properest  day  to  remove  a  nuisance?     We  answer,  the  very 
first  day  a  man  can  be  found  to  propose  the  removal  of  it ;  and 
whoever  opposes  the  removal  of  it  on  that  day  will  (if  he  dare) 
oppose  it  on  every  other.    There  is  in  the  minds  of  many  feeble 
friends  to  virtue  and  improvement,  an  imaginary  period  for  the 
removal  of  evils,  which  it  would  certainly  be  worth  while  to 
wait  for,  if  there  was  the  smallest  chance  of  its  ever  arriving — 
a  period  of  unexampled  peace  and  prosperity,  when  a  patriotic 
king  and  an  enlightened  mob  united  their  ardent  efforts  for  the 
amelioration  of  human  affairs ;    when  the  oppressor  is  as  de- 
lighted to  give  up  the  oppression,  as  the  oppressed  is  to  be 
liberated  from  it;    when  the  difficulty  and  the  unpopularity 
would  be  to  continue  the  evil,  not  to  abolish  it !    These  are  the 
periods  when  fair-weather  philosophers  are  willing  to  venture 
out  and  hazard  a  little  for  the  general  good.    But  the  history  of 
human  nature  is  so  contrary  to  all  this,  that  almost  all  improve- 
ments are  made  after  the  bitterest  resistance,  and  in  the  midst 
of  tumults  and  civil  violence — the  worst  period  at  which  they 
can  be  made,  compared  to  which  any  period  is  eligible,  and 
should  be  seized  hold  of  by  the  friends  of  salutary  reform. 

Snail's  Pace  Argument — "  One  Thing  at  a  Time! — Not 
Too  Fast! — Slow  and  Sure! — Importance  of  the  business — ex- 
treme difficulty  of  the  business — danger  of  innovation — need  of 
caution  and  circumspection — impossibility  of  foreseeing  all  con- 
sequences— danger  of  precipitation — everything  should  be 
gradual — one  thing  at  a  time — this  is  not  the  time — great  oc- 


420  SMITH 

cupation  at  present — wait  for  more  leisure — people  well  satis- 
fied— no  petitions  presented — no  complaints  heard — no  such 
mischief  has  yet  taken  place — stay  till  it  has  taken  place !  Such 
is  the  prattle  which  the  magpie  in  office,  who,  understanding 
nothing,  yet  understands  that  he  must  have  something  to  say  on 
every  subject,  shouts  out  among  his  auditors  as  a  succedaneum 
to  thought." 

Vague  Generalities. — Vague  generalities  comprehend  a 
numerous  class  of  fallacies  resorted  to  by  those  who,  in  pref- 
erence to  the  determinate  expressions  which  they  might  use, 
adopt  others  more  vague  and  indeterminate. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  terms  government,  laws,  morals,  re- 
ligion. Everybody  will  admit  that  there  are  in  the  world  bad 
governments,  bad  laws,  bad  morals,  and  bad  religions.  The 
bare  circumstance,  therefore,  of  being  engaged  in  exposing  the 
defects  of  government,  law,  morals,  and  religion,  does  not  of 
itself  afford  the  slightest  presumption  that  a  writer  is  engaged 
in  anything  blamable.  If  his  attack  be  only  directed  against 
that  which  is  bad  in  each,  his  efforts  may  be  productive  of  good 
to  any  extent.  This  essential  distinction,  however,  the  de- 
fender of  abuses  uniformly  takes  care  to  keep  out  of  sight ; 
and  boldly  imputes  to  his  antagonists  an  intention  to  subvert  all 
government,  law,  morals,  and  religion.  Propose  anything  with 
a  view  to  the  improvement  of  the  existing  practice,  in  relation  to 
law,  government,  and  religion,  he  will  treat  you  with  an  oration 
upon  the  necessity  and  utility  of  law,  government,  and  religion. 
Among  the  several  cloudy  appellatives  which  have  been  com- 
monly employed  as  cloaks  for  misgovernment,  there  is  none 
more  conspicuous  in  this  atmosphere  of  illusion  than  the  word 
order.  As  often  as  any  measure  is  brought  forward  which  has 
for  its  object  to  lessen  the  sacrifice  made  by  the  many  to  the 
few,  social  order  is  the  phrase  commonly  opposed  to  its  progress. 

"  By  a  defalcation  made  from  any  part  of  the  mass  of  ficti- 
tious delay,  vexation,  and  expense,  out  of  which,  and  in  propor- 
tion to  which,  lawyers'  profit  is  made  to  flow — by  any  defalca- 
tion made  from  the  mass  of  needless  and  worse  than  useless 
emolument  to  office,  with  or  without  service  or  pretence  of  ser- 
vice— by  any  addition  endeavored  to  be  made  to  the  quantity,  or 
improvement  in  the  quality  of  service  rendered,  or  time  be- 
stowed in  service  rendered  in  return  for  such  emolument — hif 


FALLACIES   OF   ANTI-REFORMERS  421 

«very  endeavor  that  has  for  its  object  the  persuading  the  people 
to  place  their  fate  at  the  disposal  of  any  other  agents  than  those 
in  whose  hands  breach  of  trust  is  certain,  due  fulfilment  of  it 
morally  and  physically  impossible — social  order  is  said  to  be 
endangered,  and  threatened  to  be  destroyed." 

In  the  same  way  "  Establishment "  is  a  word  in  use  to  pro- 
tect the  bad  parts  of  establishments,  by  charging  those  who  wish 
to  remove  or  alter  them,  with  a  wish  to  subvert  all  good  estab- 
lishments. 

Mischievous  fallacies  also  circulate  from  the  convertible  use 
of  what  Mr.  B.  is  pleased  to  call  dyslogistic  and  eulogistic  terms. 
Thus,  a  vast  concern  is  expressed  for  the  "  liberty  of  the  press," 
and  the  utmost  abhorrence  of  its  "  licentiousness  " :  but  then, 
by  the  licentiousness  of  the  press  is  meant  every  disclosure  by 
which  any  abuse  is  brought  to  light  and  exposed  to  shame — by 
the  "  liberty  of  the  press  "  is  meant  only  publications  from 
which  no  such  inconvenience  is  to  be  apprehended;  and  the 
fallacy  consists  in  employing  the  sham  approbation  of  liberty  as 
a  mask  for  the  real  opposition  to  all  free  discussion.  To  write 
a  pamphlet  so  ill  that  nobody  will  read  it;  to  animadvert  in 
terms  so  weak  and  insipid  upon  great  evils,  that  no  disgust  is 
excited  at  the  vice,  and  no  apprehension  in  the  evil-doer,  is  a  fair 
use  of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  and  is  not  only  pardoned  by  the 
friends  of  government,  but  draws  from  them  the  most  fervent 
eulogium.  The  licentiousness  of  the  press  consists  in  doing 
the  thing  boldly  and  well,  in  striking  terror  into  the  guilty,  and 
in  rousing  the  attention  of  the  public  to  the  defence  of  their 
highest  interests.  This  is  the  licentiousness  of  the  press  held  in 
the  greatest  horror  by  timid  and  corrupt  men,  and  punished  by 
semi-animous,  semi-cadaverous  judges,  with  a  captivity  of  many 
years.  In  the  same  manner  the  dyslogistic  and  eulogistic  fal- 
lacies are  used  in  the  case  of  reform. 

"  Between  all  abuses  whatsoever  there  exists  that  connection 
— between  all  persons  who  see,  each  of  them,  any  one  abuse  in 
which  an  advantage  results  to  himself,  there  exists,  in  point  of 
interest,  that  close  and  sufficiently  understood  connection,  of 
which  intimation  has  been  given  already.  To  no  one  abuse  can 
correction  be  administered  without  endangering  the  existence 
of  every  other. 

"  If,  then,  with  this  inward  determination  not  to  suffer,  so 


422  SMITH 

far  as  depends  upon  himself,  the  adoption  of  any  reform  which 
he  is  able  to  prevent,  it  should  seem  to  him  necessary  or  advis- 
able to  put  on  for  a  cover  the  profession  or  appearance  of  a  de- 
sire to  contribute  to  such  reform — in  pursuance  of  the  device  or 
fallacy  here  in  question,  he  will  represent  that  which  goes  by 
the  name  of  reform  as  distinguishable  into  two  species ;  one  of 
them  a  fit  subject  for  approbation,  the  other  for  disapprobation. 
That  which  he  thus  professes  to  have  marked  for  approbation, 
he  will  accordingly  for  the  expression  of  such  approbation, 
characterize  by  some  adjunct  of  the  eulogistic  cast,  such  as 
moderate,  for  example,  or  temperate,  or  practical,  or  practicable. 

"  To  the  other  of  these  nominally  distinct  species,  he  will,  at 
the  same  time,  attach  some  adjunct  of  the  dyslogistic  cast,  such 
as  violent,  intemperate,  extravagant,  outrageous,  theoretical, 
speculative,  and  so  forth, 

"  Thus,  then,  in  profession  and  to  appearance,  there  are  in 
his  conception  of  the  matter  two  distinct  and  opposite  species  of 
reform,  to  one  of  which  his  approbation,  to  the  other  his  disap- 
probation, is  attached.  But  the  species  to  which  his  approbation 
is  attached  is  an  empty  species — a  species  in  which  no  individual 
is,  or  is  intended  to  be,  contained. 

"  The  species  to  which  his  disapprobation  is  attached  is,  on 
the  contrary,  a  crowded  species,  a  receptacle  in  which  the  whole 
contents  of  the  genus — of  the  genus  '  Reform  ' — are  intended 
to  be  included." 

Anti-rational  Fallacies. — When  reason  is  in  opposition 
to  a  man's  interests  his  study  will  naturally  be  to  render  the  fac- 
ulty itself,  and  whatever  issues  from  it,  an  object  of  hatred  and 
contempt.  The  sarcasm  and  other  figures  of  speech  employed 
on  the  occasion  are  directed  not  merely  against  reason  but 
against  thought,  as  if  there  were  something  in  the  faculty  of 
thought  that  rendered  the  exercise  of  it  incompatible  with  use- 
ful and  successful  practice.  Sometimes  a  plan,  which  would 
not  suit  the  official  person's  interest,  is  without  more  ado  pro- 
nounced a  speculative  one ;  and,  by  this  observation,  all  need 
of  rational  and  deliberate  discussion  is  considered  to  be  super- 
seded. The  first  effort  of  the  corruptionist  is  to  fix  the  epithet 
speculative  upon  any  scheme  which  he  thinks  may  cherish  the 
spirit  of  reform.  The  expression  is  hailed  with  the  greatest  de- 
light by  bad  and  feeble  men,  and  repeated  with  the  most  un- 


FALLACIES   OF   ANTI-REFORMERS  423 

wearied  energy ;  and  to  the  word  "  speculative,"  by  way  of 
reinforcement,  are  added :  theoretical,  visionary,  chimerical,  ro- 
mantic, Utopian. 

"  Sometimes  a  distinction  is  taken,  and  thereupon  a  conces- 
sion made.  The  plan  is  good  in  theory,  but  it  would  be  bad  in 
practice,  i.e.,  its  being  good  in  theory  does  not  hinder  its  being 
bad  in  practice. 

"  Sometimes,  as  if  in  consequence  of  a  further  progress  made 
in  the  art  of  irrationality,  the  plan  is  pronounced  to  be  "  too  good 
to  be  practicable  " ;  and  its  being  so  good  as  it  is,  is  thus  repre- 
sented as  the  very  cause  of  its  being  bad  in  practice. 

"  In  short,  such  is  the  perfection  at  which  this  art  is  at  length 
arrived,  that  the  very  circumstance  of  a  plan's  being  susceptible 
of  the  appellation  of  a  plan,  has  been  gravely  stated  as  a  cir- 
cumstance sufficient  to  warrant  its  being  rejected — rejected,  if 
not  with  hatred,  at  any  rate  with  a  sort  of  accompaniment  which, 
to  the  million,  is  commonly  felt  still  more  galling — with  con- 
tempt." 

There  is  a  propensity  to  push  theory  too  far ;  but  what  is  the 
just  inference?  not  that  theoretical  propositions  (i.e.,  all  propo- 
sitions of  any  considerable  comprehension  or  extent)  should, 
from  such  their  extent,  be  considered  to  be  false  in  toto,  but  only 
that,  in  the  particular  case,  should  inquiry  be  made  whether,  sup- 
posing the  proposition  to  be  in  the  character  of  a  rule  generally 
true,  an  exception  ought  to  be  taken  out  of  it.  It  might  almost 
be  imagined  that  there  was  something  wicked  or  unwise  in  the 
exercise  of  thought;  for  everybody  feels  a  necessity  for  dis- 
claiming it.  "  I  am  not  given  to  speculation,  I  am  no  friend  to 
theories."  Can  a  man  disclaim  theory,  can  he  disclaim  specula-, 
tion,  without  disclaiming  thought  ? 

The  description  of  persons  by  whom  this  fallacy  is  chiefly 
employed  are  those  who,  regarding  a  plan  as  adverse  to  their 
interests,  and  not  finding  it  on  the  ground  of  general  utility  ex- 
posed to  any  preponderant  objection,  have  recourse  to  this  ob- 
jection in  the  character  of  an  instrument  of  contempt,  in  the 
view  of  preventing  those  from  looking  into  it  who  might  have 
been  otherwise  disposed.  It  is  by  the  fear  of  seeing  it  practised 
that  they  are  drawn  to  speak  of  it  as  impracticable.  "  Upon  the 
face  of  it  (exclaims  some  feeble  or  pensioned  gentleman)  it 
carries  that  air  of  plausibility,  that,  if  you  were  not  upon  your 


424  SMITH 

guard,  might  engage  you  to  bestow  more  or  less  attention  upon 
it ;  but  were  you  to  take  the  trouble,  you  would  find  that  (as  it 
is  with  all  these  plans  which  promise  so  much)  practicability 
would  at  last  be  wanting  to  it.  To  save  yourself  from  this 
trouble,  the  wisest  course  you  can  take  is  to  put  the  plan  aside, 
and  to  think  no  more  about  the  matter."  This  is  always  accom- 
panied with  a  peculiar  grin  of  triumph. 

The  whole  of  these  fallacies  may  be  gathered  together  in  a 
little  oration,  which  we  will  denominate  the  "  Noodle's  Ora- 
tion "  :— 

"  What  would  our  ancestors  say  to  this.  Sir  ?  How  does  this 
measure  tally  with  their  institutions?  How  does  it  agree  with 
their  experience?  Are  we  to  put  the  wisdom  of  yesterday  in 
competition  with  the  wisdom  of  centuries ?  [Hear!  hear!]  Is 
beardless  youth  to  show  no  respect  for  the  decisions  of  mature 
age?  [Loud  cries  of  hear!  hear!]  If  this  measure  be  right, 
would  it  have  escaped  the  wisdom  of  those  Saxon  progenitors 
to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  so  many  of  our  best  political  insti- 
tutions? Would  the  Dane  have  passed  it  over?  Would  the 
Norman  have  rejected  it?  Would  such  a  notable  discovery 
have  been  reserved  for  these  modern  and  degenerate  times? 
Besides,  Sir,  if  the  measure  itself  is  good,  I  ask  the  honorable 
gentleman  if  this  is  the  time  for  carrying  it  into  execution — 
whether,  in  fact,  a  more  unfortunate  period  could  have  been  se- 
lected than  that  which  he  has  chosen  ?  If  this  were  an  ordinary 
measure  I  should  not  oppose  it  with  so  much  vehemence ;  but. 
Sir,  it  calls  in  question  the  wisdom  of  an  irrevocable  law — of  ai 
law  passed  at  the  memorable  period  of  the  Revolution.  What 
right  have  we,  Sir,  to  break  down  this  firm  column  on  which  the 
great  men  of  that  age  stamped  a  character  of  eternity?  Are 
not  all  authorities  against  this  measure — Pitt,  Fox,  Cicero,  and 
the  Attorney-  and  Solicitor-General?  The  proposition  is  new, 
Sir ;  it  is  the  first  time  it  was  ever  heard  in  this  House.  I  am 
not  prepared,  Sir — this  House  is  not  prepared — to  receive  it. 
The  measure  implies  a  distrust  of  his  Majesty's  Government; 
their  disapproval  is  sufficient  to  warrant  opposition.  Precau- 
tion only  is  requisite  where  danger  is  apprehended.  Here  the 
high  character  of  the  individuals  in  question  is  a  sufficient  guar- 
antee against  any  ground  of  alarm.  Give  not,  then,  your  sanc- 
tion to  this  measure ;   for,  whatever  be  its  character,  if  you  do 


FALLACIES   OF   ANTI-REFORMERS 


425 


give  your  sanction  to  it,  the  same  man  by  whom  this  is  pro- 
posed will  propose  to  you  others  to  which  it  will  be  impossible  to 
give  your  consent,  I  care  very  little,  Sir,  for  the  ostensible 
measure;  but  what  is  there  behind?  What  are  the  honorable 
gentleman's  future  schemes?  If  we  pass  this  bill,  what  fresh 
concessions  may  he  not  require  ?  What  further  degradation  is 
he  planning  for  his  country?  Talk  of  evil  and  inconvenience, 
Sir !  look  to  other  countries — study  other  aggregations  and  so- 
cieties of  men,  and  then  see  whether  the  laws  of  this  country 
demand  a  remedy  or  deserve  a  panegyric.  Was  the  honorable 
gentleman  (let  me  ask  him)  always  of  this  way  of  thinking? 
Do  I  not  remember  when  he  was  the  advocate,  in  this  House,  of 
very  opposite  opinions?  I  not  only  quarrel  with  his  present 
sentiments.  Sir,  but  I  declare  very  frankly  I  do  not  like  the  party 
with  which  he  acts.  If  his  own  motives  were  as  pure  as  possible, 
they  cannot  but  suffer  contamination  from  those  with  whom 
he  is  politically  associated.  This  measure  may  be  a  boon  to  the 
Constitution,  but  I  will  accept  no  favor  to  the  Constitution  from 
such  hands.  [Loud  cries  of  hear!  hear!]  I  profess  myself,  Sir, 
an  honest  and  upright  member  of  the  British  Parliament,  and  I 
am  not  afraid  to  profess  myself  an  enemy  to  all  change  and  all 
innovation.  I  am  satisfied  with  things  as  they  are ;  and  it  will 
be  my  pride  and  pleasure  to  hand  down  this  country  to  my  chil- 
dren as  I  received  it  from  those  who  preceded  me.  The  honor- 
able gentleman  pretends  to  justify  the  severity  with  which  he 
has  attacked  the  noble  lord  who  presides  in  the  Court  of  Chan- 
cery. But  I  say  such  attacks  are  pregnant  with  mischief  to 
government  itself.  Oppose  ministers,  you  oppose  government ; 
disgrace  ministers,  you  disgrace  government ;  bring  ministers 
into  contempt,  you  bring  government  into  contempt ;  and  an- 
archy and  civil  war  are  the  consequences.  Besides,  sir,  the 
measure  is  unnecessary.  Nobody  complains  of  disorder  in  that 
shape  in  which  it  is  the  aim  of  your  measure  to  propose  a  remedy 
to  it.  The  business  is  one  of  the  greatest  importance ;  there  is 
need  of  the  greatest  caution  and  circumspection.  Do  not  let 
us  be  precipitate,  Sir ;  it  is  impossible  to  foresee  all  consequences. 
Everything  should  be  gradual ;  the  example  of  a  neighboring 
nation  should  fill  us  with  alarm !  The  honorable  gentleman  has 
taxed  me  with  illiberality,  Sir ;  I  deny  the  charge.  I  hate  inno- 
vation, but  I  love  improvement.    I  am  an  enemy  to  the  corrup- 

19— Vol  57 


426  SMITH 

tion  of  government,  but  I  defend  its  influence.  I  dread  reform, 
but  I  dread  it  only  when  it  is  intemperate.  I  consider  the  lib- 
erty of  the  press  as  the  great  palladium  of  the  Constitution  ;  but, 
at  the  same  time,  I  hold  the  licentiousness  of  the  press  in  the 
greatest  abhorrence.  Nobody  is  more  conscious  than  I  am  of 
the  splendid  abilities  of  the  honorable  mover,  but  I  tell  him  at 
once  his  scheme  is  too  good  to  be  practicable.  It  savors  of 
Utopia.  It  looks  well  in  theory,  but  it  won't  do  in  practice.  It 
will  not  do,  I  repeat,  Sir,  in  practice ;  and  so  the  advocates  of  the 
measure  will  find,  if,  unfortunately,  it  should  find  its  way 
through  Parliament.  [Cheers.]  The  source  of  that  (Corruption 
to  which  the  honorable  member  alludes  is  in  the  minds  of  the 
people;  so  rank  and  extensive  is  that  corruption,  that  no  po- 
litical reform  can  have  any  effect  in  removing  it.  Instead  of 
reforming  others — instead  of  reforming  the  State,  the  Constitu- 
tion, and  everything  that  is  most  excellent,  let  each  man  reform 
himself !  let  him  look  at  home,  he  will  find  there  enough  to  do 
without  looking  abroad  and  aiming  at  what  is  out  of  his  power. 
[Loud  cheers.]  And  now,  Sir,  as  it  is  frequently  the  custom  in 
this  House  to  end  with  a  quotation,  and  as  the  gentleman  who 
preceded  me  in  the  debate  has  anticipated  me  in  my  favorite  quo- 
tation of  the  '  Strong  pull  and  the  long  pull,'  I  shall  end  with  the 
memorable  words  of  the  assembled  barons :  '  Nolumus  leges 
'Anglia  mutari.' " 

"  Upon  the  whole,  the  following  are  the  characters  which 
appertain  in  common  to  all  the  several  arguments  here  distin- 
guished by  the  name  of  fallacies : — 

"  I.  Whatsoever  be  the  measure  in  hand,  they  are,  with  rela- 
tion to  it,  irrelevant. 

"  2.  They  are  all  of  them  such,  that  the  application  of  these 
irrelevant  arguments  affords  a  presumption  either  of  the  weak- 
ness or  total  absence  of  relevant  arguments  on  the  side  on  which 
they  are  employed. 

"  3.  To  any  good  purpose  they  are  all  of  them  unnecessary. 

"  4.  They  are  all  of  them  not  only  capable  of  being  applied, 
but  actually  in  the  habit  of  being  applied,  and  with  advantage, 
to  bad  purposes,  viz. :  to  the  obstruction  and  defeat  of  all  such 
measures  as  have  for  their  object  the  removal  of  the  abuses  or 
other  imperfections  still  discernible  in  the  frame  and  practice 
of  the  government. 


FALLACIES   OF  ANTI-REFORMERS  427 

"  5.  By  means  of  the  irrelevancy,  they  all  of  them  consume 
and  misapply  time,  thereby  obstructing  the  course  and  retarding 
the  progress  of  all  necessary  and  useful  business. 

"  6.  By  that  irritative  quality  which,  in  virtue  of  their  ir- 
relevancy, with  the  improbity  or  weakness  of  which  it  is  indica- 
tive, they  possess,  all  of  them,  in  a  degree  more  or  less  consider- 
able, but  in  a  more  particular  degree  such  of  them  as  consist  in 
personalities,  are  productive  of  ill-humor,  which  in  some  in- 
stances has  been  productive  of  bloodshed,  and  is  continually 
productive,  as  above,  of  waste  of  time  and  hindrance  of  busi- 
ness. 

"  7.  On  the  part  of  those  who,  whether  in  spoken  or  written 
discourses,  give  utterance  to  them,  they  are  indicative  either  of 
improbity  or  intellectual  weakness,  or  of  a  contempt  for  the  un- 
derstanding of  those  on  whose  minds  they  are  destined  tc 
operate. 

"  8.  On  the  part  of  those  on  whom  they  operate,  they  are  in- 
dicative of  intellectual  weakness ;  and  on  the  part  of  those  in 
and  by  whom  they  are  pretended  to  operate,  they  are  indicative 
of  improbity,  viz.,  in  the  shape  of  insincerity. 

"  The  practical  conclusion  is,  that  in  proportion  as  the  ac- 
ceptance, and  thence  the  utterance,  of  them  can  be  prevented, 
the  understanding  of  the  public  will  be  strengthened,  the  morals 
of  the  public  will  be  purified,  and  the  practice  of  government  im- 
proved." 


ON    POESY    OR    ART 


BY 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

1772— 1834 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  the  youngest  of  a  numerous  family,  was 
born  at  Ottery  St.  Mary,  in  Devonshire,  on  October  21,  1772.  He  re- 
ceived his  early  education  at  Christ's  Hospital,  where  Charles  Lamb 
was  one  of  his  school-fellows.  His  early  love  of  poetry  was  nmsed 
and  inspired  by  a  perusal  of  the  sonnets  of  W.  L.  Bowles.  When 
nineteen  years  of  age,  on  obtaining  his  presentation  from  Christ's  hos- 
pital, he  entered  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  gaining  in  classics  a  feold 
medal  for  a  Greek  ode.  About  1794  his  acquaintance  began  with 
Southey;  Coleridge  and  Southey  were  afterwards  married  on  the  Si^me 
day  to  two  sisters,  and  settled  at  Nether  Stowey,  in  Somersetshire, 
where  they  also  met  Wordsworth.  Some  of  Coleridge's  finest  pieces 
were  written  there,  such  as  the  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  the  "  Ode  on  the 
Departing  Year,"  and  the  first  part  of  "  Christabel."  Coleridge  visited 
Germany  through  the  liberality  of  the  Messrs.  Wedgwood,  the  Staf- 
fordshire potters,  and  on  returning  in  1800  went  to  reside  with  Southey 
at  Keswick,  Wordsworth  then  staying  at  Grasmere.  In  1804  he  visited 
Malta.  In  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  resided  with  his  friend  and 
medical  adviser,  Mr.  Gillman,  at  Highgate,  delighting  a  large  circle 
by  his  splendid  conversational  powers.  Here  he  died  on  July  20,  1834, 
in  the  sixty-second  year  of  his  age.  The  plan  of  the  periodical  publi- 
cation, the  "  Friend,"  occurred  to  Coleridge  while  staying  at  Keswick, 
the  first  number  of  which  appeared  on  June  8,  1809,  and  the  last  on 
March  15,  1810.  As  a  philosopher  and  theologian,  the  influence  of 
Coleridge  has  been  very  great,  and  probably  is  so  still,  notwithstand- 
ing the  apparent  predominance  of  a  less  spiritual  philosophy  than  his. 
Although  he  did  not  live  to  complete  the  grand  system  of  religious 
philosophy  which  he  appears  to  have  projected,  the  massive  frag- 
ments he  has  left  suffice  to  show  more  than  the  outlines  of  the  vast 
whole.  His  writings  are  pervaded  by  a  spirit  not  of  this  world;  and 
for  every  earnest  student  they  are  rich  in  lessons  of  truth,  wisdoui, 
and  faith.  "  On  Poesy  or  Art "  is  ranked  as  one  of  Coleridge's  mo^t 
delightful  essays. 


430 


ON   POESY  OR  ART 

MAN  communicates  by  articulation  of  sounds,  and  para- 
mountly  by  the  memory  in  the  ear ;  nature  by  the  im- 
pression of  bounds  and  surfaces  on  the  eye,  and 
through  the  eye  it  gives  significance  and  appropriation,  and 
thus  the  conditions  of  memory,  or  the  capabiHty  of  being  re- 
membered, to  sounds,  smells,  etc.  Now  Art,  used  collectively 
for  painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  and  music,  is  the  media- 
tress  between,  and  reconciler  of  nature  and  man.  It  is,  there- 
fore, the  power  of  humanizing  nature,  of  infusing  the  thoughts 
and  passions  of  man  into  everything  which  is  the  object  of  his 
contemplation;  color,  form,  motion,  and  sound,  are  the  ele- 
ments which  it  combines,  and  it  stamps  them  into  unity  in  the 
mould  of  a  moral  idea. 

The  primary  art  is  writing ; — primary,  if  we  regard  the  pur- 
pose abstracted  from  the  different  modes  of  realizing  it,  those 
steps  of  progression  of  which  the  instances  are  still  visible  in 
the  lower  degrees  of  civilization.  First,  there  is  mere  gesticu- 
lation ;  then  rosaries  or  wampum ;  then  picture-language ;  then 
hieroglyphics,  and  finally  alphabetic  letters.  These  all  consist 
of  a  translation  of  man  into  nature,  of  a  substitution  of  the 
visible  for  the  audible. 

The  so-called  music  of  savage  tribes  as  little  deserves  the 
name  of  art  for  the  understanding  as  the  ear  warrants  it  for 
music.  Its  lowest  state  is  a  mere  expression  of  passion  by 
sounds  which  the  passion  itself  necessitates; — the  highest 
amounts  to  no  more  than  a  voluntary  reproduction  of  these 
sounds  in  the  absence  of  the  occasioning  causes,  so  as  to  give 
the  pleasure  of  contrast — for  example,  by  the  various  outcries 
of  battle  in  the  song  of  security  and  triumph.  Poetry  also  is 
purely  human ;  for  all  its  materials  are  from  the  mind,  and 
all  its  products  are  for  the  mind.  But  it  is  the  apotheosis 
of  the  former  state,  in  which  by  excitement  of  the  associative 

431 


432 


COLERIDGE 


power  passion  itself  imitates  order,  and  the  order  resulting 
produces  a  pleasurable  passion,  and  thus  it  elevates  the  mind 
by  making  its  feelings  the  object  of  its  reflection.  So  like- 
wise, while  it  recalls  the  sights  and  sounds  that  had  accom- 
panied the  occasions  of  the  original  passions,  poetry  impreg- 
nates them  with  an  interest  not  their  own  by  means  of  the 
passions,  and  yet  tempers  the  passion  by  the  calming  power 
which  all  distinct  images  exert  on  the  human  soul.  In  this 
way  poetry  is  the  preparation  for  art,  inasmuch  as  it  avails 
itself  of  the  forms  of  nature  to  recall,  to  express,  and  to  modify 
the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  mind.  Still,  however,  poetry 
can  only  act  through  the  intervention  of  articulate  speech, 
which  is  so  peculiarly  human  that  in  all  languages  it  consti- 
tutes the  ordinary  phrase  by  which  man  and  nature  are  con- 
tradistinguished. It  is  the  original  force  of  the  word  "  brute," 
and  even  "  mute  "  and  "  dumb  "  do  not  convey  the  absence 
of  sound,  but  the  absence  of  articulated  sounds. 

As  soon  as  the  human  mind  is  intelligibly  addressed  by  an 
outward  image  exclusively  of  articulate  speech,  so  soon  does 
art  commence.  But  please  to  observe  that  I  have  laid  par- 
ticular stress  on  the  words  "  human  mind  " — meaning  to  ex- 
clude thereby  all  results  common  to  man  and  all  other  sentient 
creatures,  and  consequently  confining  myself  to  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  the  congruity  of  the  animal  impression  with  the 
reflective  powers  of  the  mind ;  so  that  not  the  thing  presented, 
but  that  which  is  re-presented  by  the  thing,  shall  be  the  source 
of  the  pleasure.  In  this  sense  nature  itself  is  to  a  religious 
observer  the  art  of  God;  and  for  the  same  cause  art  itself 
might  be  defined  as  of  a  middle  quality  between  a  thought  and 
a  thing,  or  as  I  said  before,  the  union  and  reconciliation  of 
that  which  is  nature  with  that  which  is  exclusively  human. 
It  is  the  figured  language  of  thought,  and  is  distinguished 
from  nature  by  the  unity  of  all  the  parts  in  one  thought  or 
idea.  Hence  nature  itself  would  give  us  the  impression  of 
a  work  of  art,  if  we  could  see  the  thought  which  is  present 
at  once  in  the  whole  and  in  every  part;  and  a  work  of  art 
will  be  just  in  proportion  as  it  adequately  conveys  the  thought, 
and  rich  in  proportion  to  the  variety  of  parts  which  it  holds 
in  unity. 

If,  therefore,  the  term  "  mute  "  be  taken  as  opposed  not 


ON    POESY   AND   ART  433 

to  sound  but  to  articulate  speech,  the  old  definition  of  painting 
will  in  fact  be  the  true  and  best  definition  of  the  fine  arts 
in  general,  that  is,  muta  poesis,  mute  poesy,  and  so  of  course 
poesy.  And,  as  all  languages  perfect  themselves  by  a  gradual 
process  of  desynonymizing  words  originally  equivalent,  I  have 
cherished  the  wish  to  use  the  word  "  poesy  "  as  the  generic 
or  common  term,  and  to  distinguish  that  species  of  poesy 
which  is  not  muta  poesis  by  its  usual  name  "  poetry  " ;  while 
of  all  the  other  species  which  collectively  form  the  fine  arts, 
there  would  remain  this  as  the  common  definition — that  they 
all,  Uke  poetry,  are  to  express  intellectual  purposes,  thoughts, 
conceptions,  and  sentiments  which  have  their  origin  in  the 
human  mind — not,  however,  as  poetry  does,  by  means  of  ar- 
ticulate speech,  but  as  nature  or  the  divine  art  does,  by  form, 
color,  magnitude,  proportion,  or  by  sound,  that  is,  silently  or 
musically. 

Well !  it  may  be  said — but  who  has  ever  thought  otherwise  ? 
We  all  know  that  art  is  the  imitatress  of  nature.  And,  doubt- 
less, the  truths  which  I  hope  to  convey  would  be  barren  tru- 
isms, if  all  men  meant  the  same  by  the  words  "  imitate  "  and 
"  nature."  But  it  would  be  flattering  mankind  at  large,  to 
presume  that  such  is  the  fact.  First,  to  imitate.  The  impres- 
sion on  the  wax  is  not  an  imitation,  but  a  copy,  of  the  seal; 
the  seal  itself  is  an  imitation.  But,  further,  in  order  to  form 
a  philosophic  conception,  we  must  seek  for  the  kind,  as  the 
heat  in  ice,  invisible  light,  etc.,  whilst,  for  practical  purposes, 
we  must  have  reference  to  the  degree.  It  is  sufficient  that 
philosophically  we  understand  that  in  all  imitation  two  ele- 
ments must  coexist,  and  not  only  coexist,  but  must  be  per- 
ceived as  coexisting.  These  two  constituent  elements  are 
likeness  and  unlikeness,  or  sameness  and  difference,  and  in 
all  genuine  creations  of  art  there  must  be  a  union  of  these 
disparates.  The  artist  may  take  his  point  of  view  where  he 
pleases,  provided  that  the  desired  effect  be  perceptibly  pro- 
duced— that  there  be  likeness  in  the  difference,  difference  in 
the  likeness,  and  a  reconcilement  of  both  in  one.  If  there  be 
likeness  to  nature  without  any  check  of  difference,  the  result  is 
disgusting,  and  the  more  complete  the  delusion,  the  more 
loathsome  the  effect.  Why  are  such  simulations  of  nature, 
as  wax-work  figures  of  men  and  women,  so  disagreeable? 


434  COLERIDGE 

Because,  not  finding  the  motion  and  the  life  which  we  ex- 
pected, we  are  shocked  as  by  a  falsehood,  every  circumstance 
of  detail,  which  before  induced  us  to  be  interested,  making 
the  distance  from  truth  more  palpable.  You  set  out  with  a 
supposed  reality  and  are  disappointed  and  disgusted  with  the 
deception;  while,  in  respect  to  a  work  of  genuine  imitation, 
you  begin  with  an  acknowledged  total  difference,  and  then 
every  touch  of  nature  gives  you  the  pleasure  of  an  approxi- 
mation to  truth.  The  fundamental  principle  of  all  this  is  un- 
doubtedly the  horror  of  falsehood  and  the  love  of  truth  in- 
herent in  the  human  breast.  The  Greek  tragic  dance  rested 
on  these  principles,  and  I  can  deeply  sympathize  in  imagi- 
nation with  the  Greeks  in  this  favorite  part  of  their  theatrical 
exhibitions,  when  I  call  to  mind  the  pleasure  I  felt  in  beholding 
the  combat  of  the  Horatii  and  Curiatii  most  exquisitely  danced 
in  Italy  to  the  music  of  Cimarosa. 

Secondly,  as  to  nature.  We  must  imitate  nature !  yes,  but 
what  in  nature — all  and  everything?  No,  the  beautiful  in 
nature.  And  what  then  is  the  beautiful?  What  is  beauty? 
It  is,  in  the  abstract,  the  unity  of  the  manifold,  the  coalescence 
of  the  diverse ;  in  the  concrete,  it  is  the  union  of  the  shapely 
(formosum)  with  the  vital.  In  the  dead  organic  it  depends 
on  regularity  of  form,  the  first  and  lowest  species  of  which 
is  the  triangle  with  all  its  modifications,  as  in  crystals,  archi- 
tecture, etc. ;  in  the  living  organic  it  is  not  mere  regularity 
of  form,  which  would  produce  a  sense  of  formality;  neither 
is  it  subservient  to  anything  beside  itself.  It  may  be  present 
in  a  disagreeable  object,  in  which  the  proportion  of  the  parts 
constitutes  a  whole ;  it  does  not  arise  from  association,  as 
the  agreeable  does,  but  sometimes  lies  in  the  rupture  of  asso- 
ciation ;  it  is  not  different  to  different  individuals  and  nations, 
as  has  been  said,  nor  is  it  connected  with  the  ideas  of  the  good, 
or  the  fit,  or  the  useful.  The  sense  of  beauty  is  intuitive,  and 
beauty  itself  is  all  that  inspires  pleasure  without,  and  aloof 
from,  and  even  contrarily  to,  interest. 

If  the  artist  copies  the  mere  nature,  the  nainra  naturata, 
what  idle  rivalry !  If  he  proceeds  only  from  a  given  form, 
which  is  supposed  to  answer  to  the  notion  of  beauty,  what 
an  emptiness,  what  an  unreality  there  always  is  in  his  pro- 
ductions, as  in  Cipriani's  pictures !     Believe  me,  you  must 


ON   POESY  AND  ART  435 

master  the  essence,  the  natura  naturans,  which  presupposes  a 
bond  between  nature  in  the  higher  sense  and  the  soul  of  man. 

The  wisdom  in  nature  is  distinguished  from  that  in  man 
by  the  co-instantaneity  of  the  plan  and  the  execution;  the 
thought  and  the  product  are  one,  or  are  given  at  once ;  but 
there  is  no  reflex  act,  and  hence  there  is  no  moral  responsi- 
bility. In  man  there  is  reflection,  freedom,  and  choice ;  he 
is,  therefore,  the  head  of  the  visible  creation.  In  the  objects 
of  nature  are  presented,  as  in  a  mirror,  all  the  possible  ele- 
ments, steps,  and  processes  of  intellect  antecedent  to  con- 
sciousness, and  therefore  to  the  full  development  of  the  in- 
telligential  act;  and  man's  mind  is  the  very  focus  of  all  the 
rays  of  intellect  which  are  scattered  throughout  the  images 
of  nature.  Now  so  to  place  these  images,  totalized,  and  fitted 
to  the  limits  of  the  human  mind,  as  to  elicit  from,  and  to 
superinduce  upon,  the  forms  themselves  the  moral  reflections 
to  which  they  approximate,  to  make  the  external  internal,  the 
internal  external,  to  make  nature  thought,  and  thought  nature 
— this  is  the  mystery  of  genius  in  the  fine  arts.  Dare  I  add 
that  the  genius  must  act  on  the  feeling,  that  body  is  but  a 
striving  to  become  mind — that  it  is  mind  in  its  essence? 

In  every  work  of  art  there  is  a  reconcilement  of  the  external 
with  the  internal;  the  conscious  is  so  impressed  on  the  un- 
conscious as  to  appear  in  it ;  as  compare  mere  letters  inscribed 
on  a  tomb  with  figures  themselves  constituting  the  tomb.  He 
who  combines  the  two  is  the  man  of  genius ;  and  for  that  reason 
he  must  partake  of  both.  Hence  there  is  in  genius  itself  an 
unconscious  activity;  nay,  that  is  the  genius  in  the  man  of 
genius.  And  this  is  the  true  exposition  of  the  rule  that  the 
artist  must  first  eloign  himself  from  nature  in  order  to  return 
to  her  with  full  effect.  Why  this?  Because  if  he  were  to 
begin  by  mere  painful  copying,  he  would  produce  masks  only, 
not  forms  breathing  life.  He  must  out  of  his  own  mind  create 
forms  according  to  the  severe  laws  of  the  intellect,  in  order 
to  generate  in  himself  that  co-ordination  of  freedom  and  law, 
that  involution  of  obedience  in  the  prescript,  and  of  the  pre- 
script in  the  impulse  to  obey,  which  assimilates  him  to  nature, 
and  enables  him  to  understand  her.  He  merely  absents  him- 
self for  a  season  from  her,  that  his  own  spirit,  which  has  the 
same  ground  with  nature,  may  learn  her  unspoken  language 


436  COLERIDGE 

in  its  main  radicals,  before  he  approaches  to  her  endless  com- 
positions of  them.  Yes,  not  to  acquire  cold  notions — lifeless 
technical  rules — but  living  and  life-producing  ideas,  which 
shall  contain  their  own  evidence,  the  certainty  that  they  are 
essentially  one  with  the  germinal  causes  in  nature — his  con- 
sciousness being  the  focus  and  mirror  of  both — for  this  does 
the  artist  for  a  time  abandon  the  external  real  in  order  to  re- 
turn to  it  with  a  complete  sympathy  with  its  internal  and 
actual.  For  of  all  we  see,  hear,  feel,  and  touch  the  substance 
is  and  must  be  in  ourselves;  and  therefore  there  is  no  alter- 
native in  reason  between  the  dreary  (and  thank  heaven !  al- 
most impossible)  belief  that  everything  around  us  is  but  a 
phantom,  or  that  the  Ufe  which  is  in  us  is  in  them  likewise; 
and  that  to  know  is  to  resemble,  when  we  speak  of  objects  out 
of  ourselves,  even  as  within  ourselves  to  learn  is,  according 
to  Plato,  only  to  recollect ; — the  only  effective  answer  to  which, 
that  I  have  been  fortunate  to  meet  with,  is  that  which  Pope 
has  consecrated  for  future  use  in  the  line — 

"And  coxcombs  vanquish  Berkeley  with  a  grinl " 

The  artist  must  imitate  that  which  is  within  the  thing,  that 
which  is  active  through  form  and  figure,  and  discourses  to 
us  by  symbols — the  Natur-geist,  or  spirit  of  nature,  as  we 
unconsciously  imitate  those  whom  we  love;  for  so  only  can 
he  hope  to  produce  any  work  truly  natural  in  the  object  and 
truly  human  in  the  effect.  The  idea  which  puts  the  form  to- 
gether cannot  itself  be  the  form.  It  is  above  form,  and  is  its 
essence,  the  universal  in  the  individual,  or  the  individuality 
itself — the  glance  and  the  exponent  of  the  indwelling  power. 
Each  thing  that  lives  has  its  moment  of  self-exposition, 
and  so  has  each  period  of  each  thing,  if  we  remove  the  dis- 
turbing forces  of  accident.  To  do  this  is  the  business  of  ideal 
art,  whether  in  images  of  childhood,  youth,  or  age,  in  man 
or  in  woman.  Hence  a  good  portrait  is  the  abstract  of  the 
personal ;  it  is  not  the  likeness  for  actual  comparison,  but  for 
recollection.  This  explains  why  the  likeness  of  a  very  good 
portrait  is  not  always  recognized ;  because  some  persons  never 
abstract,  and  among  these  are  especially  to  be  numbered  the 
near  relations  and  friends  of  the  subject,  in  consequence  of 
the  constant  pressure  and  check  exercised  on  their  minds  by 


ON    POESY   AND   ART  437 

the  actual  presence  of  the  original.  And  each  thing  that  only 
appears  to  live  has  also  its  possible  position  of  relation  to 
life,  as  nature  herself  testifies,  who,  where  she  cannot  be, 
prophesies  her  being  in  the  crystallized  metal,  or  the  inhaling 
plant. 

The  charm,  the  indispensable  requisite,  of  sculpture  is  unity 
of  effect.  But  painting  rests  in  a  material  remoter  from  nat- 
ure, and  its  compass  is  therefore  greater.  Light  and  shade 
give  external,  as  well  internal,  being  even  with  all  its  acci- 
dents, while  sculpture  is  confined  to  the  latter.  And  here  I 
may  observe  that  the  subjects  chosen  for  works  of  art,  whether 
in  sculpture  or  painting,  should  be  such  as  really  are  capable 
of  being  expressed  and  conveyed  within  the  Hmits  of  those 
arts.  Moreover,  they  ought  to  be  such  as  will  affect  the  spec- 
tator by  their  truth,  their  beauty,  or  their  sublimity,  and  there- 
fore they  may  be  addressed  to  the  judgment,  the  senses,  or 
the  reason.  The  peculiarity  of  the  impression  which  they  may 
make  may  be  derived  either  from  color  and  form,  or  from  pro- 
portion and  fitness,  or  from  the  excitement  of  the  moral  feel- 
ings ;  or  all  these  may  be  combined.  Such  works  as  do  com- 
bine these  sources  of  effect  must  have  the  preference  in 
dignity. 

Imitation  of  the  antique  may  be  too  exclusive,  and  may 
produce  an  injurious  effect  on  modern  sculpture: — first,  gen- 
erally, because  such  an  imitation  cannot  fail  to  have  a  tendency 
to  keep  the  attention  fixed  on  externals  rather  than  on  the 
thought  within; — secondly,  because,  accordingly,  it  leads  the 
artist  to  rest  satisfied  with  that  which  is  always  imperfect, 
namely,  bodily  form,  and  circumscribes  his  views  of  mental 
expression  to  the  ideas  of  power  and  grandeur  only ; — thirdly, 
because  it  induces  an  effort  to  combine  together  two  incon- 
gruous things,  that  is  to  say,  modern  feelings  in  antique  forms ; 
— fourthly,  because  it  speaks  in  a  language,  as  it  were,  learned 
and  dead,  the  tones  of  which,  being  unfamiHar,  leave  the  com- 
mon spectator  cold  and  unimpressed ; — and  lastly,  because  it 
necessarily  causes  a  neglect  of  thoughts,  emotions,  and  images 
of  profounder  interest  and  more  exalted  dignity,  as  motherly, 
sisterly,  and  brotherly  love,  piety,  devotion,  the  divine  become 
human — the  Virgin,  the  Apostle,  the  Christ.  The  artist's  prin- 
ciple in  the  statue  of  a  great  man  should  be  the  illustration 


43S  COLERIDGE 

of  departed  merit ;  and  I  cannot  but  think  that  a  skilful  adop- 
tion of  modern  habiliments  would,  in  many  instances,  give 
a  variety  and  force  of  effect  which  a  bigoted  adherence  to 
Greek  or  Roman  costume  precludes.  It  is,  I  believe,  from 
artists  finding  Greek  models  unfit  for  several  important  mod- 
ern purposes  that  we  see  so  many  allegorical  figures  on  mon- 
uments and  elsewhere.  Painting  was,  as  it  were,  a  new  art, 
and  being  unshackled  by  old  models  it  chose  its  own  subjects, 
and  took  an  eagle's  flight.  And  a  new  field  seems  opened 
for  modern  sculpture  in  the  symbolical  expression  of  the  ends 
of  life,  as  in  Guy's  monument,  Chantrey's  children  in  Worces- 
ter Cathedral,  etc. 

Architecture  exhibits  the  greatest  extent  of  the  difference 
from  nature  which  may  exist  in  works  of  art.  It  involves  all 
the  powers  of  design,  and  is  sculpture  and  painting  inclusively. 
It  shows  the  greatness  of  man,  and  should  at  the  same  time 
teach  him  humility. 

Music  is  the  most  entirely  human  of  the  fine  arts,  and  has 
the  fewest  analoga  in  nature.  Its  first  delightfulness  is  simple 
accordance  with  the  ear;  but  it  is  an  associated  thing,  and 
recalls  the  deep  emotions  of  the  past  with  an  intellectual  sense 
of  proportion.  Every  human  feeling  is  greater  and  larger 
than  the  exciting  cause — a  proof,  I  think,  that  man  is  designed 
for  a  higher  state  of  existence;  and  this  is  deeply  implied  in 
music  in  which  there  is  always  something  more  and  beyond 
the  immediate  expression. 

With  regard  to  works  in  all  the  branches  of  the  fine  artSi 
I  may  remark  that  the  pleasure  arising  from  novelty  must 
of  course  be  allowed  its  due  place  and  weight.  This  pleasure 
consists  in  the  identity  of  two  opposite  elements — that  is  to 
say,  sameness  and  variety.  If  in  the  midst  of  the  variety  there 
be  not  some  fixed  object  for  the  attention,  the  unceasing  suc- 
cession of  the  variety  will  prevent  the  mind  from  observing 
the  difference  of  the  individual  objects ;  and  the  only  thing 
remaining  will  be  the  succession,  which  will  then  produce  pre- 
■cisely  the  same  effect  as  sameness.  This  we  experience  when 
we  let  the  trees  or  hedges  pass  before  the  fixed  eye  during 
a  rapid  movement  in  a  carriage,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  when 
we  suffer  a  file  of  soldiers  or  ranks  of  men  in  procession  to 
go  on  before  us  without  resting  the  eye  on  anyone  in  par- 


ON    POESY   AND   ART  439 

ticular.  In  order  to  derive  pleasure  from  the  occupation  of 
the  mind,  the  principle  of  unity  must  always  be  present,  so 
that  in  the  midst  of  the  multeity  the  centripetal  force  be  never 
suspended,  nor  the  sense  be  fatigued  by  the  predominance 
of  the  centrifugal  force.  This  unity  in  multeity  I  have  else- 
where stated  as  the  principle  of  beauty.  It  is  equally  the  source 
of  pleasure  in  variety,  and  in  fact  a  higher  term  including  both. 
What  is  the  seclusive  or  distinguishing  term  between  them  ? 

Remember  that  there  is  a  difference  between  form  as  pro- 
ceeding, and  shape  as  superinduced ; — the  latter  is  either  the 
death  or  the  imprisonment  of  the  thing ; — the  former  is  its  self- 
witnessing  and  self-effected  sphere  of  agency.  Art  would  or 
should  be  the  abridgment  of  nature.  Now  the  fulness  of  nat- 
ure is  without  character,  as  water  is  purest  when  without  taste, 
smell,  or  color;  but  this  is  the  highest,  the  apex  only — it  is 
not  the  whole.  The  object  of  art  is  to  give  the  whole  ad  hom- 
inem;  hence  each  step  of  nature  hath  its  ideal,  and  hence  the 
possibility  of  a  climax  up  to  the  perfect  form  of  a  harmonized 
chaos. 

To  the  idea  of  life  victory  or  strife  is  necessary;  as  virtue 
consists  not  simply  in  the  absence  of  vices,  but  in  the  over- 
coming of  them.  So  it  is  in  beauty.  The  sight  of  what  is 
subordinated  and  conquered  heightens  the  strength  and  the 
pleasure;  and  this  should  be  exhibited  by  the  artist  either 
inclusively  in  his  figure,  or  else  out  of  it,  and  beside  it  to  act 
by  way  of  supplement  and  contrast.  And  with  a  view  to  this, 
remark  the  seeming  identity  of  body  and  mind  in  infants,  and 
thence  the  loveliness  of  the  former ;  the  commencing  separa- 
tion in  boyhood,  and  the  struggle  of  equilibrium  in  youth: 
thence  onward  the  body  is  first  simply  indifferent ;  then  de- 
manding the  translucency  of  the  mind  not  to  be  worse  than 
indifferent ;  and  finally  all  that  presents  the  body  as  body  be- 
coming almost  of  an  excremental  nature. 


WAVERLEY,    OR    'TIS    SIXTY   YEARS 

SINCE 


BY 


FRANCIS,    LORD    JEFFREY 


FRANCIS,   LORD  JEFFREY 

1773— 1850 

Francis  Jeffrey,  who  exercised  greater  influence  on  the  periodical 
literature  and  criticism  of  this  century  than  any  of  his  contemporaries, 
was  a  native  of  Edinburgh,  born  on  October  23,  1773.  After  educa- 
tion at  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh,  two  sessions  at  the  university 
of  Glasgow,  and  one  session — from  October  to  June,  1791-92 — at 
Queen's  College,  Oxford,  he  studied  law,  and  passed  as  an  advocate 
in  1794.  For  many  years  his  income  did  not  exceed  £100  per  annum, 
but  his  admirable  economy  and  independent  spirit  kept  him  free  from 
debt,  and  he  was  indefatigable  in  the  cultivation  of  his  intellectual 
powers.  He  was  a  Whig  in  politics.  His  literary  ambition  and  po- 
litical sentiment  found  scope  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  the  first 
number  of  which  appeared  in  October,  1802. 

The  chief  merit  and  labor  attaching  to  the  continuance  and  the  suc- 
cess of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review  "  fell  on  its  accomplished  editor. 
From  1803  to  1829  Mr.  Jeffrey  had  the  sole  management  of  the  "  Re- 
view." Besides  his  general  superintendence,  Mr.  Jeffrey  was  a  large 
contributor.  As  a  moral  writer  he  was  unimpeachable.  In  poetical 
criticism  he  sometimes  failed.  Where  no  prejudice  or  prepossession 
intervened,  he  was  an  admirable  critic.  If  he  was  not  profound,  he 
was  interesting  and  graceful.  His  little  dissertations  on  the  style  and 
works  of  Cowper,  Crabbe,  Byron,  and  Scott,  as  well  as  his  observa- 
tions on  moral  science  and  the  philosophy  of  life,  are  eloquent  and 
discriminating,  and  conceived  in  a  fine  spirit  of  humanity.  He  seldom 
gave  full  scope  to  the  expression  of  his  feelings  and  sympathies,  but 
they  do  occasionally  break  forth  and  kindle  up  the  pages  of  his  criti- 
cism. At  times,  indeed,  his  language  is  poetical  in  a  high  degree.  The 
chief  defect  of  his  writing  is  the  occasional  difFuseness  and  carelessness 
of  his  style.  He  wrote  as  he  spoke,  with  great  rapidity  and  with  a 
flood  of  illustration. 

At  the  bar,  Jeffrey's  eloquence  and  intrepidity  were  not  less  con- 
spicuous than  his  literary  talents.  In  1829  he  was,  by  the  unanimous 
suffrages  of  his  legal  brethren,  elected  Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advo- 
cates, and  he  then  resigned  the  editorship  of  the  "  Review  "  into  the 
hands  of  another  Scottish  advocate,  Macvey  Napier.  In  1830,  on  the 
formation  of  Earl  Grey's  ministry,  Jeffrey  was  nominated  to  the  first 
office  under  the  crown  in  Scotland — Lord  Advocate — and  sat  for  some 
time  in  Parliament.  In  1834  he  gladly  exchanged  the  turmoil  of  pol- 
itics for  the  duties  of  a  Scottish  judge;  and  as  Lord  Jeffrey,  he  sat 
on  the  bench  until  within  a  few  days  of  his  death,  on  January  26,  1850. 
As  a  judge  he  was  noted  for  undeviating  attention,  uprightness,  and 
ability;  as  a  citizen,  he  was  esteemed  and  beloved.  He  practised  a 
generous  though  unostentatious  hospitality,  preserved  all  the  finer 
qualities  of  his  mind  undiminished  to  the  last,  and  delighted  a  wide 
circle  of  ever-welcome  friends  and  visitors  by  his  rich  conversational 
powers,  candor,  and  humanity.  The  more  important  of  Jeffrey's  con- 
tributions to  the  "  Edinburgh  Review  "  were  collected  by  him  in  1844, 
and  published  in  four  volumes,  since  reprinted  in  one  large  volume. 
His  review  of  Scott's  "  Waverley  "  is  taken  from  this  collection. 


442 


WAVERLEY,  OR  TIS  SIXTY  YEARS  SINCE 

IT  is  wonderful  what  genius  and  adherence  to  nature  will 
do,  in  spite  of  all  disadvantages.  Here  is  a  thing  obvi- 
ously very  hastily,  and,  in  many  places,  somewhat  un- 
skilfully written — composed,  one-half  of  it,  in  a  dialect  unin- 
telligible to  four-fifths  of  the  reading  population  of  the  country 
— relating  to  a  period  too  recent  to  be  romantic  and  too  far 
gone  by  to  be  familiar — and  published,  moreover,  in  a  quarter 
of  the  island  where  materials  and  talents  for  novel-writing  have 
been  supposed  to  be  equally  wanting.^  And  yet,  by  the  mere 
force  and  truth  and  vivacity  of  its  coloring,  already  casting  the 
whole  tribe  of  ordinary  novels  into  the  shade,  and  taking  its 
place  rather  with  the  rubbish  of  provincial  romances. 

The  secret  of  this  success,  we  take  it,  is  merely  that  the 
author  is  a  man  of  genius ;  and  that  he  has,  notwithstanding, 
had  virtue  enough  to  be  true  to  nature  throughout;  and  to 
content  himself,  even  in  the  marvellous  parts  of  his  story,  with 
copying  from  actual  existences,  rather  than  from  the  phan- 
tasms of  his  own  imagination.     The  charm  which  this  com- 

1 1  have  been  a  good  deal  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  these  famous 
novels  of  Sir  Walter.  On  the  one  hand  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
let  this  collection  go  forth  without  some  notice  of  works  which,  for 
many  years  together,  had  occupied  and  delighted  me  more  than  any- 
thing else  that  ever  came  under  my  critical  survey;  while,  on  the  other, 
I  could  not  but  feel  that  it  would  be  absurd,  and  in  some  sense  almost 
dishonest,  to  fill  these  pages  with  long  citations  from  books  which, 
for  the  last  twenty-five  years,  have  been  in  the  hands  of  at  least  fifty 
times  as  many  readers  as  are  ever  likely  to  look  into  this  publication 
— and  are  still  as  familiar  to  the  generation  which  has  last  come  into 
existence,  as  to  those  who  can  yet  remember  the  sensation  produced 
by  their  first  appearance.  In  point  of  fact  I  was  informed,  but  the  other 
day,  by  Mr.  Cadell,  that  he  had  actually  sold  not  less  than  sixty  thou- 
sand volumes  of  these  extraordinary  productions  in  the  course  of  the 
preceding  year!  and  that  the  demand  for  them,  instead  of  slackening, 
had  been  for  some  time  sensibly  on  the  increase.  In  these  circum- 
stances I  think  I  may  safely  assume  that  their  contents  are  still  so  per- 
fectly known  as  not  to  require  any  citations  to  introduce  such  of  the 
remarks  originally  made  on  them  as  I  may  now  wish  to  repeat.  And 
I  have  therefore  come  to  the  determination  of  omitting  almost  all  the 

443 


444  JEFFREY 

municates  to  all  works  that  deal  in  the  representation  of 
human  actions  and  character,  is  more  readily  felt  than  under- 
stood ;  and  operates  with  unfailing  efficacy  even  upon  those 
who  have  no  acquaintance  with  the  originals  from  which  the 
picture  has  been  borrowed.  It  requires  no  ordinary  talent, 
indeed,  to  choose  such  realities  as  may  outshine  the  bright 
imaginations  of  the  inventive,  and  so  to  combine  them  as  to 
produce  the  most  advantageous  effect ;  but  when  this  is  once 
accomplished  the  result  is  sure  to  be  something  more  firm, 
impressive,  and  engaging,  than  can  ever  be  produced  by  mere 
fiction. 

The  object  of  the  work  before  us  was  evidently  to  present 
a  faithful  and  animated  picture  of  the  manners  and  state  of 
society  that  prevailed  in  this  northern  part  of  the  island,  in 
the  earlier  part  of  last  century ;  and  the  author  has  judiciously 
fixed  upon  the  era  of  the  Rebellion  in  1745,  not  only  as  enrich- 
ing his  pages  with  the  interest  inseparably  attached  to  the 
narration  of  such  occurrences,  but  as  affording  a  fair  oppor- 
tunity for  bringing  out  all  the  contrasted  principles  and  habits 
which  distinguished  the  different  classes  of  persons  who  then 
divided  the  country,  and  formed  among  them  the  basis  of  al- 
most all  that  was  peculiar  in  the  national  character.  That  un- 
fortunate contention  brought  conspicuously  to  light,  and  for 
the  last  time,  the  fading  image  of  feudal  chivalry  in  the  moun- 

quotations  and  most  of  the  detailed  abstracts  which  appeared  in  the 
original  reviews;  and  to  retain  only  the  general  criticism,  and  char- 
acter, or  estimate  of  each  performance — together  with  such  incidental 
observations  as  may  have  been  suggested  by  the  tenor  or  success  of 
these  wonderful  productions.  By  this  course,  no  doubt,  a  sad  shrinking 
will  be  effected  in  the  primitive  dimensions  of  the  articles  which  are 
here  reproduced;  and  may  probably  give  to  what  is  retained  some- 
thing of  a  naked  and  jejune  appearance.  If  it  should  be  so,  I  can  only 
say  that  I  do  not  see  how  I  could  have  helped  it;  and,  after  all,  it  may 
not  be  altogether  without  interest  to  see,  from  a  contemporary  record, 
what  were  the  first  impressions  produced  by  the  appearance  of  this 
new  luminary  on  our  horizon;  while  the  secret  of  the  authorship  was 
yet  undivulged,  and  before  the  rapid  accumulation  of  its  glories  had 
forced  on  the  dullest  spectator  a  sense  of  its  magnitude  and  power.  I 
may  venture,  perhaps,  also  to  add,  that  some  of  the  general  specula- 
tions of  which  these  reviews  suggested  the  occasion,  may,  probably, 
be  found  as  well  worth  preserving  as  most  of  those  which  have  been 
elsewhere  embodied  in  this  experimental  and  somewhat  hazardous 
publication. 

Though  living  in  familiar  intercourse  with  Sir  Walter,  I  need  scarcely 
say  that  I  was  not  in  the  secret  of  his  authorship;  and,  in  truth,  had  no 
assurance  of  the  fact  till  the  time  of  its  promulgation. 


WAVERLEY  445 

tains,  and  vulgar  fanaticism  in  the  plains ;  and  startled  the  more 
polished  parts  of  the  land  with  the  wild  but  brilliant  picture 
of  the  devoted  valor,  incorruptible  fidelity,  patriarchal  brother- 
hood, and  savage  habits  of  the  Celtic  Clans,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  dark,  intractable,  and  domineering  bigotry  of  the  Cov- 
enanters on  the  other.  Both  aspects  of  society  had  indeed  been 
formerly  prevalent  in  other  parts  of  the  country,  but  had  there 
been  so  long  superseded  by  more  peaceable  habits  and  milder 
manners  that  their  vestiges  were  almost  effaced,  and  their  very 
memory  nearly  extinguished.  The  feudal  principalities  had 
been  destroyed  in  the  South  for  near  three  hundred  years,  and 
the  dominion  of  the  Puritans  from  the  time  of  the  Restoration. 
When  the  glens  and  banded  clans  of  the  central  Highlands, 
therefore,  were  opened  up  to  the  gaze  of  the  English,  in  the 
course  of  that  insurrection,  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  carried 
back  to  the  days  of  the  Heptarchy;  and  when  they  saw  the 
array  of  the  West  country  Whigs,  they  might  imagine  them- 
selves transported  to  the  age  of  Cromwell.  The  effect,  indeed, 
is  almost  as  startling  at  the  present  moment ;  and  one  great 
source  of  the  interest  which  the  volumes  before  us  undoubtedly 
possess  is  to  be  sought  in  the  surprise  that  is  excited  by  dis- 
covering that  in  our  own  country,  and  almost  in  our  own  age, 
manners  and  characters  existed,  and  were  conspicuous,  which 
we  had  been  accustomed  to  consider  as  belonging  to  remote 
antiquity,  or  extravagant  romance. 

The  way  in  which  they  are  here  represented  must  satisfy 
every  reader,  we  think,  by  an  inward  tact  and  conviction,  that 
the  delineation  has  been  made  from  actual  experience  and  ob- 
servation— experience  and  observation  employed  perhaps  only 
on  a  few  surviving  relics  and  specimens  of  what  was  familiar 
a  little  earlier,  but  generalized  from  instances  sufficiently  nu- 
merous and  complete  to  warrant  all  that  may  have  been  added 
to  the  portrait.  And,  indeed,  the  existing  records  and  vestiges 
of  the  more  extraordinary  parts  of  the  representation  are  still 
sufficiently  abundant  to  satisfy  all  who  have  the  means  of  con- 
sulting them,  as  to  the  perfect  accuracy  of  the  picture.  The 
great  traits  of  clannish  dependence,  pride,  and  fidelity  may 
still  be  detected  in  many  districts  of  the  Highlands,  though  they 
do  not  now  adhere  to  the  chieftains  when  they  mingle  in  gen- 
eral society;    and  the  existing  contentions  of  Burghers  and 


446  JEFFREY 

Anti-Burghers,  and  Cameronians,  though  shrunk  into  compar- 
ative insignificance,  and  left,  indeed,  without  protection  to  the 
ridicule  of  the  profane,  may  still  be  referred  to  as  complete 
verifications  of  all  that  is  here  stated  about  Gifted  GilfiUan, 
or  Ebenezer  Cruickshank.  The  traits  of  Scottish  national 
character  in  the  lower  ranks  can  still  be  regarded  as  antiquated 
or  traditional ;  nor  is  there  anything  in  the  whole  compass  of  the 
work  which  gives  us  a  stronger  impression  of  the  nice  observa- 
tion and  graphical  talent  of  the  author  than  the  extraordinary 
fidelity  and  felicity  with  which  all  the  inferior  agents  in  the 
story  are  represented.  No  one  who  has  not  lived  extensively 
among  the  lower  orders  of  all  descriptions,  and  made  himself 
familiar  with  their  various  tempers  and  dialects,  can  perceive 
the  full  merit  of  those  rapid  and  characteristic  sketches ;  but 
it  requires  only  a  general  knowledge  of  human  nature  to  feel 
that  they  must  be  faithful  copies  from  known  originals ;  and 
to  be  aware  of  the  extraordinary  facility  and  flexibility  of  hand 
which  has  touched,  for  instance,  with  such  discriminating 
shades,  the  various  gradations  of  the  Celtic  character,  from  the 
savage  imperturbability  of  Dugald  Mahony,  who  stalks  grimly 
about  with  his  battle-axe  on  his  shoulder,  without  speaking  a 
word  to  anyone,  to  the  lively,  unprincipled  activity  of  Galium 
Beg ;  the  coarse  unreflecting  hardihood  and  heroism  of  Evan 
Maccombich ;  and  the  pride,  gallantry,  elegance,  and  ambition 
of  Fergus  himself.  In  the  lower  class  of  the  Lowland  charac- 
ters, again,  the  vulgarity  of  Mrs.  Flockhart  and  of  Lieutenant 
Jinker  is  perfectly  distinct  and  original,  as  well  as  the  puritan- 
ism  of  Gilfillan  and  Cruickshank,  the  atrocity  of  Mrs.  Muckle- 
wrath,  and  the  slow  solemnity  of  Alexander  Saunderson.  The 
Baron  of  Bradwardine,  and  Baillie  Macwheeble,  are  carica- 
tures, no  doubt,  after  the  fashion  of  the  caricatures  in  the  novels 
of  Smollett — or  pictures,  at  the  best,  of  individuals  who  must 
always  have  been  unique  and  extraordinary;  but  almost  all 
the  other  personages  in  the  history  are  fair  representatives  of 
classes  that  are  still  existing,  or  may  be  remembered  at  least 
to  have  existed,  by  many  whose  recollections  do  not  extend 
quite  so  far  back  as  to  the  year  1745. 

*         *         *        * 

There  has  been  much  speculation,  at  least  in  this  quarter  of 
the  island,  about  the  authorship  of  this  singular  performance. 


WAVERLEY  447 

and  certainly  it  is  not  easy  to  conjecture  why  it  is  still  anony- 
mous. Judging  by  internal  evidence,  to  which  alone  we  pre- 
tend to  have  access,  we  should  not  scruple  to  ascribe  it  to  the 
highest  of  those  authors  to  whom  it  has  been  assigned  by  the 
sagacious  conjectures  of  the  public ;  and  this  at  least  we  will 
venture  to  say,  that  if  it  be  indeed  the  work  of  an  author  hith- 
erto unknown,  Mr.  Scott  would  do  well  to  look  to  his  laurels, 
and  to  rouse  himself  for  a  sturdier  competition  than  any  he 
has  yet  had  to  encounter! 


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